


another time, another chance

by sunsetozier



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: AU, Aged up characters, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Mentions Suicide, Semi-Canon Compliant, references canon deaths, references various different aspects from the book movie and miniseries, this is basically a rewrite of It based in 2018 with my own twists, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-06-08 19:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15250008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetozier/pseuds/sunsetozier
Summary: The voice, now crystal clear and definitely inhuman, drifts through the air again. This time, it says his name, and something inside the darkness begins to glow a bright yellow. Georgie looks at the objects, trying to identify what they are, and then takes a stumbled step backward when he realizes that they’re eyes. Bright, glowing yellow eyes, staring at him, steady and unblinking, and below those eyes, the sunshine glints off of a too-wide smile filled with too-sharp teeth.Georgie spins on his heel, heart thundering in his chest, and takes off down the street. Behind him, he can hear a strange, gurgled laughter. If he were watching, he would see a gloved hand reach out from the drain and try to grab at him, but he doesn’t look back until he reaches his driveway, and by the time he does, there’s no sign of what he had seen.[In which a group of teenagers are suddenly faced with an otherworldly entity claiming to be seeking revenge for things that they didn't even do. Or, at least, that they didn't do in this timeline.]





	1. Georgie Denbrough Has a Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> hello! welcome to the shit show!
> 
> a little bit of some necessary chit-chat before you read this:
> 
> atac is a rewrite of It. it is about 50% canon and 50% my own twist on the story. it takes place in 2018 and the characters are all 17/18 throughout the fic rather than split between being kids and adults like in the book.
> 
> the ships in this fic are reddie, stanlon, benverly and bill+audra. i’m going to try and make it an even balance of content with all of these relationships, but there will probably be a bit more focus on reddie just because every other thing i have written in this fandom thus far as been reddie-central.
> 
> the amount of chapters is yet to be determined. i’ve decided to plot a chapter or two ahead instead of trying to plot the entire thing out before writing the fic. i’m only doing this because the plot is crazy in depth and it would take me a couple weeks to get the whole thing written out and i want to start posting chapters asap.
> 
> update: i’m currently aiming for twelve chapters. that number may change.
> 
> the fic will hopefully be updated once or twice a week. that is my goal. i may be late sometimes, but as long as i stay consistent in plotting a couple chapters ahead of what i’m writing, i should be able to get chapters out regularly.
> 
> it will get fucked up and gory and dark. again, this is a rewrite of It, and while i am changing a lot of things to make the story my own, there are still a lot of aspects that i am not changing. pennywise is still a piece of shit. it’ll get pretty fucked. 
> 
> if you've seen the preview for this fic on tumblr, all of that^^ is a repeat, but it's still necessary to warn you.
> 
> with that being said, i hope you enjoy!

1

_May 26, 2018 – 1:15 pm_

            Settled somewhere between Spring and Summer, the small town of Derry, Maine is, thankfully, not that hot yet. The weatherman is calling for a heat wave that’ll hit in the next month, something that no one is looking forward to – Derry summers are brutal, and everyone is well aware of it. For now, though, it’s a comfortable temperature, just warm enough to sport a t-shirt and jeans without breaking a sweat. Georgie Denbrough, thirteen-years-old and in the midst of yet another growth-spurt that makes him want to keep himself covered head-to-toe, is grateful for the gentle sunlight, clad in a pair of skinny jeans, a white take-top, and a flannel thrown over it with the sleeves pushed up to the elbow. To any common onlooker, it may appear that the sleeves are rolled up to keep himself from overheating, which isn’t exactly _wrong_ , but it isn’t _right_ , either. While it helps keep him cool, the main reason is that the flannel simply doesn’t fit otherwise. He’d stolen the damn thing from his older brother, Bill, nearly six months ago and still hasn’t grown into it.

            With headphones shoved deep into his ears and his favorite playlist on shuffle, the walk from Main Street to his house on Witcham isn’t particularly draining, as he often complains that it is. In fact, with the sun shining down on him, a few clouds dotting the sky and a gentle breeze brushing through his hair, it’s fairly peaceful; not that he’d ever admit that, of course. He’s going to complain about not getting a ride from anyone when he gets home, and he’s going to milk it for all he’s got, knowing that his brother’s friends have a soft spot for him and will back him up when an argument inevitably ensues. It won’t be a _real_ argument, though – the Denbrough brothers are close despite the four-year age gap, and any fights between them are either playful and teasing, or they’re over quickly, resolved in a matter of minutes when they remember how much they hate being mad at one another.

            Besides, it’s not a particularly far walk, seeing as his friend’s house is on the corner of Main and Jackson, which is only a three-minute drive away, had someone bothered to pick him up. And, theoretically, he could have just stayed at his friend’s place for longer, seeing as it’s a Saturday and he has no homework to do, thanks to it being the end of the school year, but he’d be an idiot to pass on the chance of being a part of a legendary Losers birthday party. They may be older, and no doubt he’ll end up going up to his room for a little while just to give them their time, but they genuinely seem to adore Georgie, and Georgie quite likes the attention.

            As he’s passing the second house after the turn at Witcham and Jackson, his music suddenly cuts off as he phone begins to vibrate in his back pocket, ringtone blasting through his headphones at such a high volume that he can feel the vibrations as he goes to rip them out of his ears, cursing softly under his breath. Pulling out his phone, he sees that he’s getting a call from Bill, as if the mere thought of him summoned his presence. Georgie huffs, rolls his eyes, and declines the call. He’s only a few minutes away from his house, Bill can wait to talk until he gets there.

            Just as he’s about to put his headphones back in, thumb hovering over the button to continue the song – his favorite song, at that; _damn you, Billy_ – his phone starts ringing again. Georgie huffs out a short breath and declines it once more, considering putting his phone on airplane mode just to avoid the calls altogether, but another call starts coming through before he can pursue the idea at all. Audibly groaning, he unplugs his headphones entirely and hits the answer button, bringing the device up to his ear to snap out, “What the hell do you _want_ , Bill?”

            “Oh, shit, Baby Denbrough’s got a temper,” a voice that is decidedly not Bill replies, sounding equal parts amused and proud. Georgie is able to pinpoint the speaker instantaneously, and while he’s still annoyed over his music being interrupted, he can’t help the small grin that twitches at his lips.

            “What do you want, Richie? And why are you using Bill’s phone?”

            Richie Tozier, with his own grin audible in his voice, nonchalantly answers, “Well, George, dearest William asked me to give you a ring and make sure you’re on your way home like promised. As for me using his phone, I did that just to piss him off. He hates—”

            “He hates people being on his phone,” Georgie finishes, nodding knowingly. It’s a common fact to anyone who even remotely knows Bill Denbrough, as is how much Richie enjoys pushing his friend’s buttons. In the background, he can hear Bill’s voice, most likely cursing Richie out, but opts to ignore it. “I’m only, like, four houses down. Tell Bill that I’ll be there in a few minutes. And, for the love of god, stop calling me George. It makes me sound like an old man and I’m barely even a teenager.”

            Apparently not hearing Georgie’s complaint, or rather choosing the ignore it, Richie says, “Put some pep in your step, kid. We have a lot of decorating to do, and if you want to stick around for the celebration, you have to help out. You know the rules.”

            Rolling his eyes, Georgie asks, “What makes you think I want to spend my Saturday at some shitty birthday party? I’ll pass, thanks.”

            “Because it’s Ben’s birthday party, and everyone loves Ben,” Richie answers, as if it’s just that simple. And really, Georgie supposes, it is, because anyone with a brain and a heart knows that Ben Hanscom is one of the few truly good people that this world has to offer. “Just hurry up, alright? We really do need the extra help if we don’t want to spend another hour putting up cheap streamers.”

            Georgie lets out a noise that’s half laugh, half scoff. “Okay, okay. I’ll be there in a minute, promise.”

            Through the line, he hears a soft beep, and the call is promptly dropped.

            With a little huff, Georgie pulls his phone back and shakes his head to himself, baffled by how he somehow managed to get so tied into his older brother’s group of friends despite being so much younger than them. It’s not particularly a bad thing, he thinks, but compared to the relationships most siblings have, it definitely seems unusual. He’s had plenty of time to get used to how odd it is, though, and therefore doesn’t spend long thinking about it as he goes to plug his headphones back into the jack. His hand freezes, however, as he hears an odd noise to his right – a noise he can’t quite place, but definitely sounds unnatural enough to grab his attention.

            Curious, he turns his head to the side, trying to locate the origin of the sound, only to find a storm drain on the side of the road. Within the drain is an inky blackness, the sunlight somehow not penetrating through the dark. From the strange darkness, the noise echoes again, only this time it’s a bit more clear, a little less muffled and distorted. Georgie can’t be sure, but it almost sounds like a person within the storm drain asking for help, their voice strained and… kind of different than a normal person sounds. Still, he takes a small step closer, squinting to try and make anything out in the shadows, but freezes when he hears a quiet scuffling from within. He looks over his shoulder, able to see his house from here, and then looks back, uncertain what to do about this.

            The voice, now crystal clear and definitely inhuman, drifts through the air again. This time, it says his name, and something inside the darkness begins to glow a bright yellow. Georgie looks at the objects, trying to identify what they are, and then takes a stumbled step backward when he realizes that they’re _eyes_. Bright, glowing yellow eyes, staring at him, steady and unblinking, and below those eyes, the sunshine glints off of a too-wide smile filled with too-sharp teeth.

            Georgie spins on his heel, heart thundering in his chest, and takes off down the street. Behind him, he can hear a strange, gurgled laughter. If he were watching, he would see a gloved hand reach out from the drain and try to grab at him, but he doesn’t look back until he reaches his driveway, and by the time he does, there’s no sign of what he had seen.

 

 

 

 

2

             Within the walls of the Denbrough household, there’s an abundance of noise, much to the dismay of Sharon and Zack Denbrough, who are trying to spend a peaceful day together upstairs. Bill would apologize, but it would be useless – as much as his parents may complain about all the racket, he knows they don’t actually mind. They’re more than content to just put on some of their favorite music to drown out the sound as they do whatever it is they want to do, leaving the kids downstairs undisturbed as they rush to finish everything they need.

            Like in the living room, for instance.

            “That looks a little sideways, Big Bill.”

            “Tozier, if you don’t shut your fucking mouth and help me with this, I swear to god I’ll kill you.”

            Perched precariously on the tip-top of the couch, Bill has one hand holding one end of a large _Happy Birthday Ben!_ banner against the wall, the other side already pinned up. Every few seconds, he sucks in a sharp breath, feeling his balance beginning to tilt, but manages to catch himself before he falls, too determined on getting this done to give up now. From the ground, where he’s sitting with his legs crossed and leaning back against his hands, Richie tilts his head to the side and hums lightly. “I’m _serious_ , Denbrough. Lift that end up a little bit. No, too far- down some. A little bit more… a little more… stop! That’s perfect!”

            Casting a glare over his shoulder, Bill pins up the banner and huffs, “Can you get up already? You said you were taking a five-minute break twenty minutes ago! At this rate, Ben will be back way before we’re done. This is _tradition_ , Richie, remember? If Ben comes back before we’re done, it’ll _break the tradition_.”

            “Jesus Christ, you sound like Stan,” Richie says through a little laugh, though he does as asked and pushes himself to his feet, snatching a roll of streamers off the carpet as he does so. “You have no faith, Bill. You gotta stop worrying so much! Eds’ll keep good ol’ Benny busy until I tell him we’re ready to go, and then things will be smooth sailing. Besides, it’s not my fault we’re so far behind schedule. All of us slept in this morning, not just me.”

            “I’m kind of offended,” Stanley Uris calls from the kitchen, though his voice is lilted with amusement, “but Richie’s right, so I’m gonna let it slide.”

            Richie cocks an eyebrow and points towards the hallway connecting the two rooms, where Stan’s voice had come from. “See? Even Hard Ass Uris agrees with me. You need to calm down, dude. Everything’s gonna be fine.” Faintly, they can hear Stan snort and say something else to Beverly Marsh, but neither of them pays it any attention as Richie drops his arm to his side and moves forward, not yet joining Bill on the sofa but instead looking up at him with a grin. “This is _Ben_ , okay? Every single year he tells us not to do anything for him. No matter what, he’s gonna love this, so just chill.”

            “But—” Bill cuts off, glancing between the banner and Richie in uncertainty, and then sighs. “Yeah, yeah, okay.” He holds a hand out, which Richie gratefully accepts to help pull him onto the sofa. They look around the living room for a moment, appreciating what they’ve gotten done so far, and then set off on completing the rest.

            Down the hall, Stan and Beverly are perched across from each other at the kitchen table, a cake sitting on the table top between them and an assortment of decoration tools surrounding it. It’s quieter here than it is in the living room, the two so focused on making the cake look perfect that they don’t bother to do more than murmur to one another when absolutely necessary. There’s a smudge of frosting on Beverly’s cheek and some colorful sprinkles in Stan’s hair from when Beverly tossed a handful at him earlier. Mike Hanlon is also in the kitchen, flitting back and forth between the fridge, the open cabinets, and the counter, trying to sort through the wide assortment of snacks that they’ve prepared for today. There are a few large bowls that have been taken out as well, though he hasn’t filled them quite yet – he wants the snacks to be fresh when Ben gets here, which means he needs to wait until the cake and the living room are done before getting them ready. For now, his only task is to make sure they have everything they need.

            “Dammit, Richie,” he sighs, scanning the shelves of the refrigerator for the Diet Coke that they all know Ben loves. When Richie came in an hour ago to get something to drink, he’d sworn up and down that it wasn’t the last one. Apparently, that wasn’t true, because there’s no sign of another no matter how hard Mike looks. Closing the door to the fridge, he takes out his phone and sends a quick text to Eddie Kaspbrak, asking for him to pick some up on their way back to Bill’s house. After the text is sent, he leans back and examines everything slowly, nodding to himself, and decides that everything else they need is already here.

            Back in the living room, the front door suddenly bursts open, Georgie stumbling in with his chest heaving, eyes wide and frantic. The unexpected noise makes Richie jump and almost fall off the couch he’s still standing on, but Bill reaches over and grabs his shoulder before he can topple to the ground. Once Richie’s upright, Bill immediately jumps down and closes the space between him and Georgie, concerned. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

            Georgie parts his lips, but no words come out quite yet. Instead, he hunches over, leaning slightly into Bill’s side as he tries to catch his breath. It wasn’t a particularly far run from the storm drain to his house, but he’s never sprinted that fast in his god damn life, and his lungs are definitely paying the price. Eventually, after his chest feels looser and his head isn’t spinning, he straightens up, only semi-aware of Richie watching him warily as he explains, “I was walking home and there was- there was _something_ in the sewer. I think it was a person, because I swear I heard someone talking to me, but if it was, their eyes looked all weird and- and yellow.” He shakes his head, features pinched and anxious. “It was- I dunno. It probably was just some random person, but it scared the shit out of me, so I booked it.”

            “There was someone in the sewer?” Richie asks, bewildered, just as Bill instinctively says, “Watch your language, Georgie.”

            Pointedly ignoring Bill’s comment, Georgie meets Richie’s gaze and shrugs, nodding uncertainly. “I think? I couldn’t see much, to be honest, but for a second I think I saw them smiling.”

            “That’s so weird,” Bill murmurs, brows drawn together. He reaches over and claps Georgie on the shoulder lightly, his smile kind and understanding. “C’mon, let’s go take a look, see if they’re still in there. Maybe they need help or something.”

            “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Billy,” Georgie tries to argue, but Bill doesn’t listen.

            Pointing at Richie in a way that’s probably supposed to be menacing but definitely isn’t, Bill instructs, “Keep working on the streamers. They’re almost all up, and after that we just have to stack the gifts and set up the coffee table and the music. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”

            With an ironic salute, Richie responds, “Ay, ay, captain!”

            “Bill, seriously,” Georgie insists, but he stills follows when Bill leads the way outside.

            As soon as the door is shut, Richie hops down to the floor and falls back onto the sofa, letting out a slow breath as his muscles relax into the cushions. Pulling his phone from his back pocket, he wastes no time in unlocking it and pulling up to his texts to respond to the last message that Eddie sent.

 

            **_eds spageds (1:22 pm):_** _how much longer do i have to drag ben around town???_

_**eds spageds (1:22 pm):** he keeps asking to come back and there aren’t that many more places we can go._

_**richie rich (1:29 pm):** not much longer, promise. we’re almost done._

_**richie rich (1:30 pm):** tell him to shut up and deal with it. part of the tradition is staying out until the house is set up. you guys know this._

_**eds spageds (1:31 pm):** hey, i’m not complaining, this means i don’t have to do any of the hard work. i just have to hang out with ben until the party starts. i’m having a fucking blast._

_**richie rich (1:31 pm):** then what’s the problem??_

_**eds spageds (1:32 pm):** ben’s impatient and has a guilty conscience._

_**richie rich (1:33 pm):** he’ll be fine_

 

            “I’m pretty sure Bill told you to keep decorating.”

            Richie looks up and grins as Beverly sits next to him. His grin quickly falls, though, when she swats him upside the head lightly and gives him a pointed look, spurring him to jut him lower lip out into a childish pout and whine, “But I’m so _comfortable_!” Beverly laughs and rolls her eyes at him, looking unimpressed. “Besides, aren’t you on cake duty? Why the hell are you out here telling me to do my job when you’re not doing yours?”

            “I _was_ doing my job,” Beverly defends with a scoff, “but Mike has nothing left to do and offered to take over for me. He said it’s because he knows how much I hate sitting down for so long, but I think we both know the real reason.”

            “Of course,” Richie sighs, his smile wide and fond. “He’ll take whatever chance he can get to spend time with Stan. God, will they ever fess up to liking each other? It’s been _years_ , I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

            Beverly nods in agreement, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning further back into the sofa. She takes a moment to scan over Richie, her lips tugged up into a half-smile, half-smirk, then teasingly tells him, “You know, hypocrisy is not your shade.”

            Blinking slowly, Richie looks at her, looks down at his texts with Eddie, and carefully quips, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Before Beverly can respond, the door swings open and Bill and Georgie make their way inside. Beverly lets out a disappointed little huff, but Richie is ecstatic for the interruption, sitting up straighter as he asks, “So? Was there a crazy guy in the sewer?”

            “A what now?” Beverly questions, looking confused and mildly alarmed.

            “I told you to keep decorating!” Bill complains, lifting a hand to gesture at Richie’s sitting figure incredulously. “Not lounge around on your ass!”

            Richie waves a hand dismissively and looks at Georgie, who’s staring at the floor and scuffing the toe of his shoe against the carpet. “Georgie,” he says in an attempt to get Georgie’s attention, resulting in the two of them meeting gazes. “Did you guys find anything?”

            Shrugging a shoulder half-heartedly, Georgie shakes his head and mumbles, “No, nothing. There was no one there, but—”

            “It was probably just some homeless person who got lost in the tunnels,” Bill interrupts. Georgie falters, unconvinced, but before he can protest against Bill’s theory, Bill grins at him and asks, “You wanna help us finish up? I need all the help I can get, since Richie’s too god damn lazy to do anything.”

            Looking down at his phone, Richie begins to type out another text with one hand and lifts the other to flip Bill off, not bothering to give a proper reply. This draws out some laughter before Georgie quickly agrees and Beverly gets to her feet to offer assistance. Richie glances up at Georgie, frowning slightly in worry, and then looks back down to finish his response to Eddie.

 

 

 

 

3

            The Center Street Convenience Store has always felt a bit too stuffy, the air heavy enough to be noticeable with every inhale, leaving you wishing that you were capable of holding your breath for the full extent of your time spent inside. Despite visiting this store a few times a week, Eddie still feels horribly uncomfortable leaning against the counter for the pharmacy, tapping his fingers against the back of his phone as he glances between the screen, the pharmacist, Ben, and back again. He knows that coming here was a necessity – he ran out of his migraine medication a few days ago, and the headaches have come back with a vengeance – but he still wishes they could have avoided coming in.

            “I still don’t see why we can’t just go help them finish up,” Ben says from his right side, the same complaints that he’s been throwing out there for the last hour and a half. Eddie hums to show he’s still listening as he types up a quick response, prompting Ben to continue with, “I’m fully capable of putting up streamers, okay? We could be over there right now—”

            “This is your birthday party, Ben,” Eddie interrupts, turning off his screen and setting the device on the counter as he gives Ben a level look. “Part of your privilege as the birthday boy is not having to set up the party. And, consequently, I don’t have to do anything, either, since my job is to keep you busy. It’s tradition, alright? We do this for everyone, every single year.”

            Ben frowns. “But my birthday isn’t until next weekend!”

            “And you won’t be here next weekend,” Eddie quips, glancing over at the pharmacist and internally cursing Dr. Keene for being so incredibly slow. “So, we’re doing this now, and your only job is to sit back, relax, and enjoy yourself. Think you can do that?”

            “I don’t—” Ben starts, only to cut himself off as Eddie gives him another pointed look, leaving no room for negotiation. With a heavy sigh, he reluctantly nods. “Okay, fine. I still think it’s unfair, though.”

            Reaching over to pat Ben on the cheek gently, Eddie tells him, “You can think that all you want. We’re still not going back until I’ve been told we’re allowed to.”

            Ben scoffs and pushes Eddie’s hand away with the roll of his eyes, but his lips twitch up into a little smile. Eddie returns the small smile with a large, toothy grin before turning his attention back to his phone, unlocking it quickly to scan over the text he just got from Richie. Ben watches him, smiles slowly growing and a knowing glint in his eyes. “Hey, quick question. Are you ever not talking to Richie?”

            “Interesting question,” Eddie deadpans, not even bothering to lift his gaze away. “Funny, I had a question of my own. Are you ever not thinking about Beverly?”

            Ben parts his lips, falters, and then seals them back together. _Fair enough._

            “Here you go,” Dr. Keene murmurs, plopping down a paper bag in front of Eddie and raising his eyebrows questioningly. “Will that be all?”

            “I think so,” Eddie nods, going to set his phone down, only to stop when he catches a glimpse of the text Mike sent him ten minutes ago. “Wait, actually- Ben, can you go grab some Diet Coke’s? I guess Richie drank them all.”

            “Of course he did,” Ben mumbles, not at all surprised.

            Eddie lets out a little snort as Ben starts to walk away, then suddenly reaches out to grab his arm as an idea hits him. “Oh! Grab something else, too. Just- whatever you want. The birthday present I ordered for you won’t be delivered until after you get back from visiting family, so I’ll just buy you something here to make up for it being late. Don’t worry about what it is, if my mom gets worried or something then my dad’ll just calm her down.”

            Eyes lighting up, Ben nods and trots off down the aisles of the store, scanning over the items as he goes. Eddie turns back to the counter and offers a smile to Dr. Keene, who just lets out a sigh and says, “Let me know when you’re ready to check out,” before turning around to start sorting through some of the shelves behind the counter. Smile falling, Eddie huffs lightly and resists the urge to roll his eyes. He knows Dr. Keene is old and tired, but the dismissive behavior never fails to get on his nerves. Letting it slide for the time being, Eddie just goes back to texting to pass the time.

            After a few short minutes, Ben comes back and gently plops a pack of Diet Coke’s and a family size bag of chips next to Eddie’s medication. Eddie looks at the items, blinks slowly, and then looks at Ben. “You can have literally anything in here that you want, and you’re choosing a bag of chips?

            “Bill and Stan always eat them all before I can have any,” Ben defends with a shrug. “This way, I know I’ll get some.”

            “Cheapest birthday present I’ve ever bought,” Eddie murmurs, but he doesn’t protest against Ben’s choice, instead looking forward again and saying, “Hey, Mr. Keene? We’re ready.”

            Dr. Keene lets out another long sigh, as if pained to be doing his job, and makes his way back to the register. He doesn’t bother talking for the time being, instead putting all his focus in ringing up the things they’re buying, leaving the three of the in a tense silence that Eddie absolutely despises. Thankfully, Ben seems to hate it, too, as he’s the one to break it with a meek little, “So, about the whole going-back-to-help-set-up thing—”

            “We’re not going back to Bill’s until they’re done,” Eddie reminds him.

            “Okay, I get that, but just hear me out,” Ben insists. Eddie hesitates, but eventually nods, if only to avoid lapsing into another uneasy silence. Immediately, Ben starts to explain why he deems it unfair to not only the others, but also why he deems it unfair to himself to be kept away from everyone else like this.

            At first, Eddie nods along slowly, though he has no intentions of following through with anything he’s nodding along to. After a few moments, however, Ben’s words start to drone on in his mind, blending together until he can’t discern one sentence from another. He thinks it’s a result from zoning out, but then he notices another noise that is not Ben’s voice coming from somewhere behind him – a strangle little tapping, like someone flicking their fingernail against a window over and over and over again. Confused, he glances over his shoulder, brows drawn together as he tries to locate the sound, semi-expecting to see Richie standing outside and tapping against the glass of the door, but all his eyes are capable of focusing on is a piece of paper taped up on the wall. On the paper is a square picture that he recognizes from the yearbook they got from Derry High a few days ago – a picture of Betty Ripsom with her name printed below it, a short description of what she looks like, and the words **_MISSING_** on top of the page in big, blocky letters.

            He’s so caught up in reading the poster that it takes him a moment to realize that the sound has now moved, traveling to his left until it’s directly behind him once more. Giving the missing poster another quick scan, he turns back around, once again trying to figure out where the noise is coming from. It’s odd, really, when he comes face-to-face with Ben and sees his mouth moving but cannot hear a word, can only hear this odd sound with the rest of the world muffled behind it.

            Over Ben’s shoulder, pinned to a cork board hung on the wall, Eddie sees another missing person poster, and the tapping suddenly turns into a loud ringing in his ears that he can’t quite place. This poster looks much similar to the other, but the picture and the name are strangely slurred past the point of being able to see who it is. He squints, as if that’ll help him see it any better, and tries to make sense of the strange feeling of recognition stirring deep in the pit of his gut. Although it shouldn’t be working, the longer Eddie squints, the clearer the picture becomes. Slowly, he starts to make out the shape of the person’s face and the color of their hair, and it looks like they’re wearing glasses, too. The name is coming into focus, as well, but all he can make out is an R, a T, and a Z.

            He thinks it might be… but that’s not possible, right?

            “These items have been billed to your family’s account,” Dr. Keene drawls, bringing Eddie back into reality so suddenly that it nearly gives him whiplash when he snaps his head around to meet Keene’s gaze. “Will that be all?”

            “No—” Eddie stops, clears his throat, and shakes his head. “I mean, yeah, uh- that’s all. Thank you, Mr. Keene.”

            Dr. Keene doesn’t respond as he turns away and continues to work on whatever he’d been sorting through before. Besides him, Ben has stopped talking in favor of collecting their items and putting them in a larger paper bag. Eddie looks back at the cork board and finds another Betty Ripsom poster staring back at him. Letting out a slow breath, Eddie tries for a smile and takes the bag from Ben as he asks, “You ready to go?”

            Ben nods, though he does deflate a bit as they make their way towards the front door. “How much longer until we can go back?”

            “I don’t know,” Eddie tells him honestly, pushing open the door and holding it open to let Ben through. They come to a stop outside, both of them looking up and down the street, helplessly trying to think of ideas for something else to do to pass the time, when Eddie’s phone buzzes in his hand with another text. He looks down at it, lips pulling back into a wide grin, and says, “Actually, I _do_ know. C’mon, you’ve got a birthday party waiting for you.”

 

 

 

 

4

             “We did good,” Mike says, looking over the living room appreciatively.

            The walls and the ceiling are covered with a large abundance of colorful streamers, all of which leads to the large banner pinned up and making it the main thing that grabs your attention when you look at it. As well with streamers are a wide assortment of balloons, some filled with helium mingling on the roof while the other non-helium ones litter the ground. The coffee table has no available free space on it, every square inch filled with bowls of chips, chocolates, fruits, and even one overflowing with a mixture of Pop Rocks and Nerds. The cake is still in the kitchen, waiting for the special moment where they’ll light the candles and bring it out, but there’s a place reserved for it on one of the side-tables sitting besides the couch. In one corner of the room is the pile of presents that they got for Ben, save for Eddie’s gift that has yet to arrive. In another corner is the speakers, which is where Richie currently resides.

            “We did,” he agrees, a shit-eating grin on his face as he plugs his phone into the aux cord that’s connected to the speakers. “But you know what would make it even better?”

            From where he sits on the sofa, Georgie groans, “Please don’t play—”

            _Hit it!_

            “—any of the weird shit you listen to,” Georgie finishes quietly, sighing.

            “Language, Georgie,” Bill scolds lightly, though his smile is wide as he pushes himself to his feet, head bobbing along to the upbeat sound of It Takes Two by Rob Base & DJ EZ Rock. A classic, as Richie would say. “Besides, this is a good song! Come on!”

            Georgie watches as Bill and Richie start to dramatically dance and sing along to the song, his nose crinkled slightly in distaste. To his dismay, Stan quickly joins them, pulling Beverly and Mike after him, and suddenly all five of them are flailing their limbs wildly and screeching the lyrics. In all honesty, Georgie doesn’t mind the song choice that much – he has it on a few of his playlists and usually doesn’t complain much when it comes on shuffle – but he needs a good reason to go upstairs and give them their _big kid space_ , as his mom puts it. He knows they don’t mind him being there for the birthday party, but he also knows that they prefer having an hour or so to themselves before letting other people into the celebration. So, with a dramatic huff, he uses this as his excuse, pushing himself to his feet and making his way towards the stairs. For good measure, he shouts, “Your music sucks, Tozier!”

            Laughing, Richie yells the lyrics after him instead of offering a proper response.

            Just as Georgie disappears up the stairs, the front door opens. “Did you guys put Richie in charge of music again?” Eddie immediately asks upon entering the household, tossing the paper bag in his hands onto the sofa as he takes in the sight before him. Behind him, Ben shuts the door and lets out an incredulous little noise at the room, scanning over every inch of decorations with a fond look in his eyes.

            “Eds!” Richie shouts, his features lighting up, a wide grin on his face. “Dance with me!” Before Eddie can protest, Richie grabs onto his wrist and spins him further into the room, drawing out a surprised gasp. It only takes a second before Eddie gives in, his laugh loud and boisterous as he attempts to spin Richie like Richie had spun him.

            “You like it?” Beverly asks Ben, separating herself from the group to stand in front of him, head cocked slightly to the side.

            Ben nods, his eyes wide and his smile soft. “It’s incredible.”

            Beverly grins and holds out her hand. “You gonna come dance with us, Hanscom?”

            “It’d be my pleasure, Marsh,” Ben says, his cheeks flushing as he lets her pull him into the misshapen dance circle that the others have formed.

 

 

 

 

5

             From his room, Georgie can hear a majority of the conversation that everyone downstairs is having. He doesn’t eavesdrop, of course, but he does keep an ear out to try and determine a good time for him to go back down and rejoin the party. It’s only snippets of things that he hears, like everyone asking Ben what it feels like to almost be eighteen, and Richie and Beverly boasting about being the only ones that are legally adults, and then an endless amount of teasing towards Bill for being the youngest of them all.

            When he isn’t listening in on them, Georgie passes time by watching videos on his phone, sprawled out on his bed lazily and barely paying attention to whatever YouTuber he randomly clicked on. He can’t even remember which videos he’s watched once they’re over, all of them blurring together in his mind as he glances at his closed bedroom door every few minutes. It’s a little over an hour into this before his phone freezes, the screen going black before the device shuts off altogether. With a frustrated groan, he throws his phone on the bed and listens in once more, trying to decipher what’s being said downstairs. All he can hear is music and laughter, and he decides that it’s been long enough.

            Pushing himself to his feet, Georgie makes his way across his room, already reaching out towards the doorknob when a sudden chill runs down his spine, making him freeze. It feels like someone’s eyes are on him, watching his every move, and for a terrifying moment he gets the idea that maybe he’s the video that another person is watching on their phone, but he pushes the thought away as soon as it comes.

            Slowly, Georgie turns back around, gaze sweeping over his room in confusion. At first, he can’t see a single thing that’s out of place, but then he notices something pinned up on his wall that is usually not there. Unsure of what else to do, he gets closer to see what it is.

            A picture of himself stares back at him, only the Georgie in the photo can’t be much older than six-years-old. It looks a lot like his kindergarten photo, but something about it seems very off, something he can’t quite place. The quality of the picture is worse than he remembers it being, and he’s fairly certain his hair wasn’t that long when he was that young, but his memory isn’t the best so he isn’t sure how reliable those feelings are. He takes another step closer, trying to pinpoint what exactly seems so odd, when he finally glances down and reads the fine print.

_George Denbrough_

_Derry Elementary School, 1957_

 

            The numbers glare at him, the black ink contrasting against the white border. Georgie blinks and reads over it again. It says the same thing. He raises a hand, rubs at his eyes, and tries one more time. The caption has not changed. He reads it over and over and over again, hoping that, somehow, he’s managed to read it wrong, but still it stays the same.

            Giving up, Georgie looks back to the photo and blanches. He’s fairly certain the smile had not been that wide a moment ago, and his eyes are blue, not the odd, brownish-yellow that this picture is showing him. The longer he looks, the stranger the picture appears to be, until, eventually, the Georgie in the photo winks, grin unnaturally large, before the picture vanishes entirely, leaving no trace that it had been there at all.

            Through the door, he can still faintly hear the laughter and the upbeat conversation. He wants to go downstairs and join them, wants to relax and have a good time, but a horrible feeling of dread keeps him glued right where he is, eyes trained on the spot of the wall where the picture had been only seconds prior.

            And above the dread, above the want, above everything else, is a horribly strange feeling of familiarity.


	2. The Odd Behavior of Maggie and Wentworth Tozier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only thing Georgie knows is that he is not himself, and he is not sure what that means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took longer to write than i wanted it to but it is here woooah

1

_June 10, 2018 – 5:23 pm_

            Waist deep in the cool water of the Quarry, with the sun shining down on them like a blanket, Eddie lets out a high-pitched scream.

            Richie emerges from the water with a laugh, pushing his mess of wet hair from his eyes as he grins at Eddie cheekily. Releasing another short screech, this one softer and more frustrated than afraid, Eddie starts reigning a shower of half-hearted punches to the curve of Richie’s shoulders, his brows drawn together and his lips barely managing to suppress a grin of his own as he huffs, “That’s not fucking funny, Richie! I thought something was gonna drag me under!”

            “It _is_ funny,” Richie argues, bringing up his hands to ward off Eddie’s assault of thrown fists weakly. “It’s so funny that I think I’m gonna do it again when you least expect it, just to hear that little scream of yours again.” He steps back, dodging the next blow that Eddie was trying to send to his chest, and catches Eddie’s wrists in both his hands, eyebrows raised high. “Actually, I _know_ I’m gonna do it again, but first...” Without any warning, he uses his grip on Eddie’s wrists to tug him further into the water, only for his foot to slip on a rock, sending them both toppling under the surface with hoarse shouts of surprise.

            From the shore, where he’s sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, Bill lets out a shallow snort as he watches the two of them disappear into a show of flailing limbs and splashing water. By his side, Mike shakes his head in amusement, his legs sprawled out in front of him and leaning on his hands, pebbles digging into his palms. “Idiots,” Bill murmurs under his breath, only tearing his gaze away once he sees them resurface, spluttering.

            Mike nods in agreement, though he also looks away shortly after, looking back to Bill as he continues what he had been saying before. “Ben says the library is looking for people to help out over summer. I don’t know how you’d feel working there, but I think I’m gonna stop by on my way back to the farm. You can come with me, if you’re interested in that.”

            “Maybe,” Bill muses, his nose scrunching up slightly as he squints through the sunlight, trying to look up at the trees. It’s an absolutely gorgeous day, and with only one week left in their Junior year, the taste of summer freedom is sickeningly sweet and tantalizingly close, just barely out of reach. “I’ll go with you to check it out, sure, but I’m gonna look around at some other places, too. I have my eyes set on the diner just outside of town, the one on the road leading the Bangor? It’d be annoying as all hell having to go out of Derry just to cover my shift, but with the tips, I think it’d be worth it. Besides, Richie said he’s already got a sure job there starting next week, and he’s already talking about trying to get Eddie hired, too. If I ask him, he’ll help me, too.”

            “That doesn’t surprise me,” Mike chuckles, his smile wide and fond. “If Eddie doesn’t get hired, he’s gonna spend all his time there just to see Richie anyway. Might as well put him to work while he’s there.”

            Bill lets out a long groan at that, head tipping back. “Oh, god, don’t remind me! Maybe I _won’t_ try for a job there, I don’t want to be the third wheel whenever I’m at work. I mean, look at this shit! I’m already the seventh wheel in this group. If it’s just me, you and Ben at the library, at least I won’t feel so left out all the god damn time.”

            Looking affronted by that response, Mike takes a moment to look around, lips parted to protest, only for his mouth to snap shut once he realizes how true it looks. Eddie and Richie are in the middle of some kind of wresting match, one that looks very dangerous to be partaking in when they’re up to their chests in the water. Ben and Beverly aren’t even _here_ right now, opting to try and study for upcoming finals at the library, and Stan is currently curled up on the ground with his head resting in Mike’s lap, having been asleep for the last twenty minutes and showing no sign of moving for at least another ten. No matter how much he wants to argue against Bill’s statement, the odds are kind of stacked against him right now, so he opts for offering a sheepish smile and a half-shrug.

            “I’m not complaining, don’t worry,” Bill assures upon seeing the slight guilt glinting in Mike’s eye. He leans forward and slings an arm around Mike’s shoulders in a side hug, careful to make sure the gesture doesn’t jostle Stan as he does so. “You guys all deserve each other. I just wish I didn’t have to be the one single friend.”

            “Technically, we’re all single,” Mike counters meekly. “None of us are dating anyone. There’s just… some very obvious pining that hasn’t been acted on yet.”

            Bill lets out another snort, giving Mike an unimpressed look as he glances between him and Eddie and Richie, who have gone from regular wrestling to quite literally clambering up each other’s bodies and trying to submerge each other under the water, letting out loud, echoing laughter that fills the air around them as they do so. “Maybe no one’s officially asked anyone out yet,” Bill says, “but you can’t act like I’m not the odd one out here. Not in a bad way, just… a different way.”

            “What about that new girl, Audra?” Mike asks, desperate to change the subject when he sees Stan shifting slightly, not quite awake but looking close to it. He nudges his shoulder against Bill’s and grins. “You guys looked like you were getting along when you were helping her with that Algebra assignment last week.”

            “Okay, first of all, Audra’s not a new girl anymore,” Bill tells him, raising a single finger in the air and trying not to draw attention to the way his cheeks redden. “She moved here six months ago, we’re well past new girl territory.” Lifting another finger to join the first, he adds, “And second of all, who’s to say she likes me? Or that she’ll _ever_ like me?”

            “’Cause she’d be a fuckin’ idiot not to,” Stan suddenly speaks up, his words quiet and semi-slurred as he turns his head and groggily blinks up at them. Immediately, Mike grins, his hands twitching as he just barely resists the urge to run his fingers through Stan’s hair. Thankfully, Stan isn’t nearly awake enough to notice this, squinting through the sunlight to look at Bill and state, “If you say some dumb shit like that again, I’ll beat your ass, Denbrough. Don’t think I won’t. Those bird books are heavy, and I got some muscle mass from carrying them around, so trust me when I say it’d hurt like a bitch.”

            With a quiet laugh, Bill reaches over and ruffles Stan’s hair lightly, rolling his eyes as he does so. “I know it would, Uris. You’ve given me plenty of bruises over the years.”

            Grinning, Stan slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, stifling a yawn as he points out, “Every bruise was well deserved and you know it, even if most of them were accidental. The only one I meant to give you was the black eye when we were thirteen, and that’s because you were having some kind of funk and kept treating Richie like shit.”

            Bill shrugs. “Yeah, that’s fair. I was kind of a little shit back then.”

            “Kind of?” Mike asks incredulously, his brows raised high as he claps a hand on Bill’s shoulder. “Billy, honey, I love you to pieces, but you were an asshole when you were thirteen. Seriously, like, you meant well, but you had no grip on your anger and always lashed out at everyone. I thought you were going to kill me at least once a week throughout all of middle school.”

            “Okay, I get it, I was a horrible person, I know,” Bill relents, raising his hands in front of him in surrender, but it’s clear that he takes no offense from this as he lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head in amusement. “We’re all aware of this, and I got better. No need to attack me now.”

            Too sleepy to second guess his choice in actions, Stan shuffles over and pulls Bill into a hug, his own laughter floating through the air as he does so. “Love ya, Denbrough,” he says, shoving playfully at Bill’s shoulder as he pulls back. Then, without even a moment of consideration, he leans over and presses a quick, smacking kiss to Mike’s cheek and adds, “You, too, Hanlon.”

            Before Mike can even begin to think of a reaction, Stan pushes himself to his feet and plops himself down on the bank to put his feet in the water. Sporting a smug grin, Bill lightly nudges his shoulder against Mike’s and asks, “You still alive in there?”

            “Nope,” is all Mike is able to get out, his eyes wide and his lovestruck smile a bit bashful as he stares after Stan. Unable to help himself, Bill falls into a fit of giggles, poking and prodding Mike in the side as he begins to relentlessly tease him for his crush.

            From where he sits, Stan can only faintly make out the little clips of conversations around him, mostly a few snippets of words that don’t string together without context, but he doesn’t feel awake enough yet to try and participate in either one. Besides, he’s overheating on the shore but if he tries swimming when he’s still so groggy he’s scared he may fall back asleep and drown. So, for the time being, this is more than enough, lazily kicking his legs back and forth, feeling the water moving when he does so, and gazes around the Quarry. Eventually, his eyes land on Richie and Eddie, and he decides to just watch, lips twitching into a small smile as he witnesses Eddie trying to lift Richie on his shoulders, both of them out of breath from laughing as they continuously fumble and fall, splashing around like little kids rather than the damn near adults that they are.

            Well, that Richie is, technically, but Stan doesn’t feel like any of them will be adults until all of them turn eighteen, which won’t happen until January, when Bill, the bitterly youngest of the group, finally reaches that milestone. Even though Richie, Beverly and Ben are now seen as adults through the eye of the law, that doesn’t mean that Stan has to see them that way quite yet.

            It’s as Stan is watching his friends goof off that he gets a glimpse of something in the water over Eddie’s shoulder. Whatever it is, it’s indistinguishable with the ripples in the water, but something about it grabs his attention, keeping his focus on it despite the fact that it’s probably not even important. Still, he squints, trying to see it more clearly, only to come to the conclusion that it must be the reflection of something at the top of the cliff that they used to jump off of as kids. He looks up, now more intrigued than anything else.

            All he finds is empty air.

            Blinking once in surprise, Stan looks back down, finding that odd thing in the water and staring at it once more, trying to decipher what it is. It has to be a reflection, he decides, because there’s no sign of anything below the surface of the water. Completely baffled, he looks back up to the cliff just to check, and still there is nothing to be seen. He shakes his head slightly, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes, hoping to get whatever remnants of sleepiness out of him in that one gesture, but when he looks again, whatever it is has only gotten clearer. Not clear enough to see it quite yet, but enough so to pique his interest even more.

            The longer he looks, the more it starts to become somewhat of a tangible shape. It still takes a long moment before he’s able to distinguish what it is with the ripples in the water still contorting the image, but eventually he can pinpoint the fact that it’s a person – specifically, if the smaller build is anything to go by, a child. The kid’s hair is a bright blonde in the sunlight, looking almost platinum, and their clothes are simple, a striped shirt and khaki shorts, a lot like what Stan wore when he was in middle school. Actually, now that he’s thinking about it, this kid looks almost exactly like a younger Stan, only the details are hard to see in the contorted reflection. What really grapples his attention now, however, is the bright red glint in the sunlight, caking the sides of this kids face, looking a hell of a lot like-

            “Hey, Stanny, you feeling okay?”

            Stan blinks, tearing his gaze away from the reflection and looks at Richie, who has stopped messing around with Eddie in favor of watching him closely, looking concerned. Mouth feeling dry, Stan asks, “Uh- what?”

            This just causes Richie to frown, shuffling forward until the water is only up to mid-thigh and he’s within reaching distance. “You look pale, man. Like, paler than your usual vampire pale. You look the sick kind of pale.”

            “Um…” Stan trails off, looking over Richie’s shoulder. Where the reflection had been, there is now nothing but clear water. Shaking his head, he decides that he must be groggier than he thought and answers, “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Just… tired, I guess.”

            “If you say so,” Richie says, looking unconvinced. He decides to drop it, though, and allows his lips to twitch into a wide, shit-eating grin. “You know what would wake you up?”

            Already catching onto Richie’s plan, Stan defensively raises his hands in front of him and protests, “Richie, don’t you fucking dare—” Before he can finish, Richie reaches forward and pulls Stan off of the bank, sending the both of them tumbling into the water. He isn’t sure how Richie manages to drag him so far, but when he resurfaces, the water is up to his collarbones and his hair is in his eyes. “Tozier, you are such a _dick_!”

            Eddie giggles and hops onto Stan’s back in his confused state, sending them both tumbling back underwater as Richie watches in amusement. From the shore, he can hear Mike and Bill laughing loudly, and when he looks over they’re both clambering towards the water to join the fun. By the time Stan and Eddie stand up again, Mike and Bill have already reached them, and Stan can’t even pretend to be mad when he sees Richie pounce onto Mike’s back and cling on like a leech.

            He thinks that summer can’t come quick enough, because in between summer jobs and preparing for their last year of high school, Stan knows they will spend their time like this. Even as he thinks this, though, he feels an uneasy shiver run down his spine. Cautiously, he turns his head to the side, trying not to alert the others of his actions as he does so, and looks back to where the reflection had been.

            A singular drop of blood falls into the water, seemingly out of nowhere. When the ripples even out, however, there’s no sign of redness left behind.

 

 

 

 

2

 

            “Wait, how the hell did that become negative? That’s not supposed to be negative.”

            Beverly looks up from her set of notes, gaze falling on a visibly disgruntled looking Ben sitting across from her at the table. His brows are drawn together in confusion, the erasure of his pencil caught between his teeth as he scans over his Algebra 2 textbook over and over again. She has a feeling he didn’t mean to speak out loud at all, but that doesn’t stop her from reaching forward and spinning his work around to look over it quickly. “Oh, right here,” she says, plucking the pencil from Ben’s grasp and erasing some of what he has written before going on to explain, “This is just asking to simplify the expression, not solve it. So, look- when the square root ends up in the denominator, you use the square root and multiply the numerator and the denominator by it. That way, the denominator will lose the square root and now it’s just a three, and the three’s cancel out. That leaves you with the square root of two, which is as simplified as you can get it. There’s your answer.”

            “Oh,” Ben breathes, looking down as what Beverly wrote when she hands it back to him and nodding to himself. “Okay, yeah, that makes sense. Thanks, Bev.”

            “Of course,” Beverly grins before turning back to her notes to read over them carefully, murmuring the words under her breath as she does so. What she doesn’t notice while doing this is the way that Ben is still gazing at her with a look of uncertainty on his eyes.

            After a few moments, Ben looks away, letting out a slow sigh as he slowly closes his notebook. “I can’t study anymore,” he announces, not bothering to keep his voice down; it’s a late Sunday afternoon, they’re the only ones in the library anyway, so there’s no need to stay quiet. With a laugh, Beverly nods in agreement, frowning down at her notes in distaste. It’s this that spurs Ben on to ask, “You, uh- do you want me to walk you home or something? I mean, it’s late, and- and I know you’re probably tougher than I am- well, okay, you’re _definitely_ tougher than I am, but, y’know, I could—”

            “That’s really sweet of you to ask, Ben,” Beverly interrupts, her smile soft and genuine, “but your house is completely across town from mine. I’m not letting you go so far out of the way for me. Thank you, though.”

            “Anytime,” Ben breathes, not at all set back by the denial. He knows that he doesn’t need to walk Beverly home, knows that she’s fully capable of taking care of herself, but he also knows she appreciates the kind gesture. Clearing his throat, he offers a sheepish grin and starts to shove his math book into his backpack. “I’m gonna go, then. My mom’s been on a kick about eating dinner early, so if I’m not home by six then she’ll ground me. Or maybe she won’t, since I’m eighteen now? I dunno, but I don’t want to risk finding out.” Pushing himself to his feet, he slings his backpack over his shoulders and looks at Beverly questioning. “Can I at least walk you out, or are you gonna stay a bit longer?”

            Beverly takes a moment to ponder this, her lips pursing in thought before she places her notes on the table and pulls her own bag into her lap, unzipping it as she says, “I can read these at home. Lead the way, Hanscom.”

            Biting back a grin, Ben ducks his head bashfully while he waits for Beverly to finish packing up her things, pushing her chair in and standing once she’s ready to go. “Follow me, Marsh,” he says when she looks at him expectantly, taking a step back and holding an arm out to her.

            “Ooh, very classy,” Beverly laughs, linking her elbow with his and letting him guide them out of the room, down the hall and through the door. It’s not at all a long walk, only taking a minute or so before they’re standing on the sidewalk outside the library, but it’s something neither of them want to miss out on. Withdrawing her arm, Beverly grins and says, “Night, Ben.”

            “Goodnight, Beverly,” Ben practically whispers, returning the grin with one twice as large as he watches her turn away. He stares after her in a daze, only blinking and looking down when she turns the corner down the street and disappears from his line of sight.

 

 

 

 

3

 

            The walk from the library to Beverly’s house on Main Street, across the road from Pasture Road, is not a very far one, but she still chooses to take her time as she trails down the sidewalk, backpack slung over one shoulder. It’s just past six in the afternoon now, according to her phone when she checks it, and being ten days into June with summer just around the bend, the sun has started to stay out later and later. Right now, it’s at the in between stage where it’s not quite sunset but it’s not daytime, either – the sky is beginning to turn pink around the edges and the bright blue behind the white puffy clouds is getting darker, but the sun is still shining down on Beverly as she walks, warming her skin and making her feel absolutely elated.

            Her third year of high school is almost over, and after that, there’s only one year left until her and the losers are able to go off and explore the world outside of Derry. Thankfully, Beverly only has her Algebra 2 final to worry about, seeing as her English teacher decided to have an essay rather than a test and she managed to get her essay done last Thursday. She knows the others aren’t as lucky, all of them stressing over their Math final, English final, and, for Mike, an AP History final. However, she can see it in all of their eyes when she looks at them – the glint of excitement, of unbridled anticipation, as the end of the school year draws closer and closer, the taste of summertime freedom becoming so tantalizing that it’s beginning to drive them all mad.

            Absentmindedly, Beverly lets her thoughts continue to wander as she makes the turn from Kansas Street onto Main, her lips twitching into a small smile as a group of what appears to be middle schoolers bike past her. In some ways, she misses being in their place, racing down Up-Mile Hill on her bike, the rest of the losers surrounding her, but she quite likes where they are now. And, even more-so, likes where they’re headed from here. The future is bright and brimming with potential. Beverly knows that they’re going to do great things with their lives.

            It’s because of these thoughts that she walks with a little skip in her step, unable to restrain the smile on her face as she happily looks at her surroundings. She’s seen all of Derry a million times before, but today feels different, feels better, because this town is god damn beautiful under the sunlight and Beverly loves it to pieces. Even the old bridge that she has to cross to get to her place, with the rust and the graffiti – not to be mistaken with the kissing bridge, which is a few streets over in Bassey Park and also riddled with rust and graffiti – looks stunning in this lighting. She nods to the people she passes as she approaches the Main Street bridge, people who look just as up beat as she feels, and continues to appreciate the view.

            The Main Street bridge looks over the beginnings of the Kenduskeag, where Penobscot river splits. Below the bridge, the water goes underground until it reaches the canal, which is where the kissing bridge is, and then makes its way into the Barrens. In the section of the Kenduskeag that Main St. bridge overlooks, there’s the drains dump out rain water during storms. It’s not a particularly pretty sight, the large pipes jutting out of the ground and glistening brighter than the river itself under the sunlight, but Beverly still looks over it with a light heart and shimmering eyes. Nothing, not even the ugliness of this particular view, can ruin her good mood right now.

            Except, perhaps, the odd glimmer of red coming from one of the storm drains.

            Beverly comes to a slow stop as she looks at this, uncertain what to make of what she sees. In one of the storm drains, which are mostly dry due to it having not rained since mid-May, there’s a crimson liquid that quite clearly does not belong there. She spends a long moment trying to decipher what it could be, but eventually she gives in to the simple fact that it must be blood – though, why there’s blood coating the inside of this pipe, she has absolutely no idea. Taking a shuffling step closer to the ledge of the bridge, Beverly watches in horrified fascination as a little stream of blood suddenly gushed out of the pipe, dripping into the river in a slow, syrupy kind of way, causing bile to burn the back of her throat as she hears it plop into the water.

            Alarmed, Beverly snaps back into reality and takes a staggered step backwards, tripping over her own shoes and falling to her knees. She lets out a low hiss of pain and scrambles back up to her feet, looking around to try and locate the nearest person – after all, there was an abundance of people, kids and adults alike, strolling around only moments ago – but when she looks, the area around her is deserted. Frowning, she turns back to the storm drain with full intentions of figuring out what the hell is going on, ignoring the aching in her knees and her palms from the fall, but when her eyes land on it, the pipe is bare and bone dry, showing no signs of the blood she had just seen inside.

 

 

 

 

4

 

            Richie Tozier hates being alone.

            That has been an abundantly clear fact since day one, and that has not changed over the years. He may be eighteen-years-old but being left on his own for longer than five minutes is more than enough to reduce him to a childish state of touch-starved and needy. Because of this, he spends a lot of time with the losers, never failing to bask in how compliant and tolerable they are of his affectionate advances. He hates parting ways with them, hates having to say goodbye, even if it’s just until the following morning, but in that bitterness is a bit of sweet, too.

            While he may despise leaving the company of his friends, doing so usually means spending a night in with his folks, and there is little he loves more than spending time with his parents.

            Maggie and Wentworth Tozier are, quite simply, perfect. They know when to pamper Richie and when to show some tough love; they know what to say and do when Richie needs comfort, and they’ve always, _always_ , loved their son unconditionally. The only downside to them are their serious addictions to working so much, always taking extra shifts and not always being home in the evening, when Richie usually gets to spend time with them. But today is Sunday, the day that neither of them has to go to work, and Richie has no plans for the rest of the night. So, yeah, sure, the losers are his family and he wishes they didn’t have to part ways, but he’s not really going to complain, now is he?

            With a pep in his step, Richie bounds his way up his front porch, twirling his house keys around his finger despite knowing the door isn’t going to be locked while his parents are home. As expected, the door gives easily when he twists the knob and pushes it open, already toeing off his shoes as he calls out, “I’m home!”

            Oddly enough, he doesn’t get a response – usually, his father shouts back some kind of smart ass reply that never fails to make Richie snort – but he doesn’t dwell on that too much. What he does dwell on, though, is how unnaturally quiet the house is, causing his brows to twitch together in confusion as he shuts the door and makes his way further into his home.

            “Mom?” he says, not fond of the way his voice bounces around like he’s stuck in some cement basement yelling to himself for the sake of hearing his own voice. “Dad? You guys home?”

            Now, when he gets no response, he gets an uneasy feeling. They were both home before he left to go to the Quarry, and neither of them said anything about having plans to leave. Are they gone? Was there an emergency that caused them both to flee the house? Confused, Richie takes out his phone and goes through the notifications there – no texts or missed calls from either of them. So, what is it? Where are there?

            “Went?” Richie tries again, still clutching his phone in his hand as he creeps slowly down the hallway leading to the living room, a permanent scowl on his face as he does so. “Mags?” He doesn’t get a response, just like before, but he isn’t exactly expecting one anymore, realizing that there must be something wrong that caused this odd silence. Trying not to let his nerves get the best of him, he makes his way into the living room, only to come to a halt a few steps in when his eyes land on the unusual mess inside. Littering the floor is an abundance of beer cans and glass bottles, all of which appear to be empty, which is alarming for many reasons – to begin with, his parents don’t drink, save for the occasional glass of wine on the holidays or with dinner. Second of all, his parents are fairly tidy and would never leave so much trash behind. Either something is horribly wrong with Went and Maggie, or his parents aren’t the ones who made this mess in the first place.

            Now cautious in his steps, Richie tiptoes his way across the carpet, wincing slightly when he hears the floor creaking under his weight. He’s just starting to consider calling the cops – or, better yet, calling the losers and getting their asses over here – when he enters the kitchen as sees his father leaning against the counter with a half empty bottle of beer in his hands. Richie lets out a sigh of relief, though he’s still completely baffled, which quickly draws Went’s attention. Lips tugging down in a frown, Went scans Richie up and down in disinterest, asking, “What’s wrong with you?”

            Affronted by how monotone his father’s voice is, Richie stammers out, “Uh- nothing, I guess. Just… kind of confused? By the- the beers, and stuff. Did something happen, or…?”

            “What the hell are you talking about?” Went questions, raising his brows as he shakes his head slightly, seemingly lost by Richie’s concerns. He quickly drops it, though, taking a sip of his beer and turning his head to look down at his phone as he murmurs, “Whatever, nevermind. Go to your room, Richard.”

            Richie blanches, blinking slowly in shock. His father hasn’t told him to go to his room since he got grounded for mouthing off to his grandma back when he twelve-years-old, and never has he said it with such a lack of caring, as if he truly doesn’t give a shit if Richie were to go to his room or jump off a bridge. Unable to think of a way to respond, and feeling as though he’s done something wrong to deserve such out of character treatment, Richie dumbly nods and spins around on his heel, wasting no time to clamber up the stairs with a wounded ego and a million questions that he’s too afraid to ask.

            On his way to his room, he ducks into his parents room in the hopes of tracking down his mom and figuring out what’s going on. When he looks, though, the room is empty, nightstand covered in more cans and bottles of beer, the smell so strong that Richie feels like he could choke on it.

 

 

 

 

5

 

            The only thing Georgie knows is that he is not himself, and he is not sure what that means.

            All he can register is the faintest of sensations, the sound of footsteps in water, the smell of something rancid and rotten, the feeling of something horribly, terribly wrong. Not the kind of wrong that is easily fixed, either, but the kind of wrong that is stifling, ever present and always there, hanging in the air like a cloud that will never go away. There are snippets of words in his head, parts of conversations he wasn’t there for, thoughts that are not his own.

            _Middle of town… that’s where It is…_

_Something new. For the first time in forever, something new._

            Georgie’s vision is limited, blurs of muted colors and dark tunnels and things he doesn’t understand. There’s a mound of circus remains and floating dots that he knows he doesn’t want to see close up, puddles of murky water beneath him and figures he can’t distinguish other than the somewhat humanoid shapes – his age, he thinks, if the heights are anything to go by, but that’s all he can manage to discern in his jumbled mess of meaningless thoughts.

            _It hated the fear…_

            The blurs change, and he still can’t see them well, but there’s something different about them – smaller in size, difference colors. A year or two younger now, somehow, Georgie thinks, but it isn’t Georgie’s thoughts at all. It’s someone else’s- no, some _thing_ else’s thoughts, some _thing_ else’s observations, a messy narration that makes no sense.

            _You killed my brother, you bastard._

            And that is Bill’s voice, oh yes, Georgie can tell, but the words don’t add up because he is right here, heart pounding in fear and very much alive, except he is not himself, he is Itself, It is him, and everything is very, so very wrong. He wants to scream and yell, wants to break out of this hellish place and go back to his house, his room, his family, the places and the people he knows.

            But then everything stops, and Georgie’s- no, _It’s_ eyes focus on a very young, tear-stained Bill, the barrel of some kind of gun in his hands, and in a steady voice that is simultaneously not steady at all, he says, “But you’re not

 

 

 

 

6

 

            Georgie! Wake up, dammit!”

            With a strangled gasp, Georgie sits up in his bed, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat as he urgently blinks, his eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness of his room. In front of him, Bill – normal Bill, seventeen-year-old Bill, not the young boy from Georgie’s dream – is crouched, his eyes alight with concern as he tries to get a grip on Georgie’s flailing limbs.

            Upon seeing him, Georgie stills, his chest heaving as Bill cautiously moves to sit on the edge of the bed, as if afraid that Georgie will start freaking out once more. Once he sees that Georgie is calming down, he softly murmurs, “You were yelling in your sleep. I thought- I thought there was someone in here trying to hurt you or something, but when I came in you were just, like, thrashing around. You looked fucking possessed.”

            Still breathing heavily, Georgie averts his gaze, pulling his arms back and pushing himself to a sitting position. “Bad dream,” he whispers in a half hearted explanation, brows drawing together in confusion. It had been a bad dream, a very bad dream, but the details are fading faster than he’s able to recall them

            “Nightmares suck,” Bill states knowingly, offering a tightlipped smile. “What was it about?”

            _Fear,_ Georgie things. _Fear, and greywater, though I don’t know what that is, and I think you were there, you and all of your friends, the losers, the…_

_The lucky seven, whatever that means._

            “I don’t know,” he answers honestly, frowning to himself. “I can’t- I can’t remember.”

 

 

 

 

7

 

            When Richie makes his way downstairs the following morning to make his way to school, he does so with a cautious he never thought he’d ever have in his own home, but after last night, he feels as though it’s necessary. Keeping his footsteps light, he rounds the corner to the kitchen, hoping to grab a bagel or something to eat on the way, only to find a much more familiar and comforting sight.

            Standing in front of the stove is his father, stirring a pan full of scrambled eggs, looking much more upbeat and sober than he was before, while Maggie sips at a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. Both of them look over when he comes in, faces lighting up at the sight of their son, and Richie feels such an overwhelming amount of relief that his shoulders sag, all the tension leaving his body with one loud exhale. With a grin of his own, he makes his way to the table and plops himself in the sit across from his mother, who lightly kicks him in the shin and raises a brow as she asks, “What kept you out so late last night?”

            Richie falters, cocking his head to the side. “Late? I got home at, like, six-thirty, but you were MIA and dad was acting weird so I just went upstairs.”

            “MIA?” Maggie repeats, confused. “I was cooking, but you didn’t come back for dinner. We thought you just stayed at one of your friends houses and forgot to tell us, so we ate and went to bed.”

            “No, that can’t be right,” Richie murmurs, shaking his head. He parts his lips, ready to repeat what had happened when he got home yesterday, but it’s then that he takes a look around and notices the lack of evidence – the spotless counters, no lurking beer smell – and something about that makes his mouth snap shut, bewildered by the uneasy feeling that crawls up his spine.

            Sensing his change in demeanor, Went looks over and asks, “You alright, Richie?”

            “Yeah,” Richie mumbles, averting his gaze to the kitchen table. “Yeah, no, I’m fine, just- I don’t know. Had a weird dream, I guess. I thought…” He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his features. “Nevermind. It’s probably just stress from finals week or something. Makin’ my head all fucky.”

            Letting out a snort, Went light heartedly scolds, “Watch your mouth.” Even as he says this, though, he flashes Richie a grin and takes the eggs off the stove to put on plates.

            “Try going to bed early tonight,” Maggie suggests. “You should be well rested for finals, anyway. It’ll help, and you hopefully won’t have a head that’s all fucky.”

            “I will,” Richie smiles, but he feels his heart grow heavy in his chest as he takes another slow look around the room, baffled by how there’s absolutely no leftover sign of what happened the night before. For a terrifying moment, he thinks that maybe it didn’t happen at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love hearing theories so if anyone wants to guess what exactly is happening then please comment your thoughts below, it makes my heart v happy. or just comment anything below, it will make me so giddy and motivated to write the next chapter asap!!


	3. A Promise to Remember It By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not one of those storms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> officially decided on a chapter count for this fic!! my goal is fifteen chapters - the full plot still isn't done, though, so that number could change, but for now that is the number of chapters i'm shooting for!

1

_June 13, 2018 – 1:43 pm_

 

            There are only three days left until summer officially begins, and those three days are possibly the most dread-filled days of the entire school year. For each of these days, every student of Derry High is forced to undertake the last of their tests, submit their final assignments, and cross their fingers and hope to whatever God they may or may not believe in that they did enough to keep their grade up. Today, the first of the three last days, is already proving to be a significant difficulty for everyone, so much stress on their shoulders that they feel simultaneously suffocated and like they’re drowning.

            In room 233, Ben is hunched over his desk, chewing on the end of his pencil as he scans over the last few questions of his English finals, struggling to grasp onto what he can remember from the short story they’d been instructed to read last week. The days always blur together this time of year, and last week had been a jumbled mess of studying and birthday presents and what was probably too much cake – while Ben did read the short story more than once, it’s still lost in his memories, barely out of his grasp. He lets out a slow sigh and leans back in his seat, rolling his neck back to try and relieve some of the tension in his muscles, before his gaze falls on Richie, who is a few desks over and very clearly asleep. For a moment, Ben feels envious over Richie’s ability to remember everything so clearly, as Richie had been done with this test in ten minutes, but that envy quickly fades into amusement as Richie lets out a snore that rings out loudly in the silence of the classroom, making everyone jump.

            As funny as it is, though, Ben makes sure his head is angled towards his paper when their teacher clambers onto her feet and makes her way over to kick Richie into the hall for the rest of class.

            On the other side of the school, huddled together at a small table with their textbooks sprawled out in front of them, are Bill, Stan, and Eddie, trying – keyword: trying – to study for their math final the next day. Stan and Bill seem to be doing just fine, scanning over the problems and solving them with ease, but Eddie is definitely struggling, sinking his teeth into his lower lip as he reads and rereads the question hopelessly. “I can’t remember how to do this,” he sighs, shaking his head to himself as he taps the end of his pencil against the page. Bill lets out a soft groan, having just tried to explain the problem to Eddie less than five minutes ago, but Stan only smiles and scooches his chair over to see Eddie’s work better, immediately jumping into a slower, more in depth explanation of what they’re supposed to do, Eddie listening closely as he tries to follow along.

            In the school’s library, Beverly sits at a table alone, the pulled-out chair next to her and abandoned backpack the only sign that Mike had been there only moments before. The two of them are the only ones who lucked out enough to only have one official final – for Beverly, a math final, and for Mike, an AP History final – thanks to the rest of their classes opting to have projects that were due last Friday instead. Now, their last days of Junior year are spent relaxing, save for fifth period, when they have PE with Richie and Eddie, but PE is something they can live with. While she waits for Mike to return, she pulls out her phone and starts spamming the losers group chat with whatever odd picture she can find in her camera roll, snickering into her palm when Bill sends a single text fourteen pictures in asking her to stop. She sends another picture in response.

            Mike, who had left the library in order to go to the restroom, is currently trailing down the hallway at an easy pace, whistling a low tune under his breath. He can feel his phone vibrating in his back pocket, but when he checks and sees it’s just a spam of pictures sent by Beverly, he opts not to respond, though it does draw a chuckle out of him before he puts his phone back into his pocket and pushes open the bathroom door. Unsurprisingly, it’s empty, a majority of student’s current taking their finals are studying for more finals tomorrow, but an empty public bathroom has never failed to feel eerie, amplifying and echoing any and every sound made within the walls, bouncing off tiled walls and floors. Unable to help himself, Mike shivers, for a moment considering just going back to the library and waiting until he gets home, but there’s a chance his bladder may not hold out that long, so he pushes through the uneasy feeling to do his business as quickly as he possibly can.

            The dread weighing heavy in his stomach seems to be as pointless and unprovoked as usual, the product of nothing but his own irrational fear, but that’s quickly proven to be wrong when he’s washing his hands. At first, he doesn’t notice it, but then the smell gets his attention – the smell of something burning, the smell of smoke, but not the kind of smoke that comes from a nice summertime campfire, oh no. The kind of smoke that chokes you, black and heavy, and when Mike looks up in alarm, he can see that there is, indeed, a dark haze of black smoke slowly filling the room. Facet forgotten, he quickly backs away, semi-aware of the fact that water is beginning to collect in the bowl of the sink despite there being nothing to block the drain, his hands dripping suddenly red droplets onto the white tiles beneath him, an observation that he can’t really focus on, or really make, as the smoke gets denser and denser, making it harder and harder to see.

            With a rough cough, the smoke burning his throat when he inhales, he stumbles his way to the bathroom door, slippery slick hands fumbling against the wood, only to let out a hoarse shout when it won’t budge. Somehow, during the five minutes he’s been inside the restroom, the door has been locked from the outside, leaving him trapped while smoke billows in from the beneath the doorway and slowly begins to fill the room. Bringing his hands up, he begins to pound on the door, trying to alert someone that he’s in here, the stinging from the smoke now bringing tears to his eyes.

            In a matter of seconds, Mike is gasping through terrified sobs, blinded by the smoke and still desperately wailing against the door. Beneath his feet, he feels water begin to puddle from the now overflowing sink, but he can’t be bothered to care, not even when it starts to rise past his toes and lap at his ankles, a cool contrast against the boiling hot air. His hands leave bloody marks on the smooth wood, his knuckles aching and complaining under the pressure of his punches, and he doesn’t know where the blood is coming from because he certainly isn’t bleeding. That thought is quickly shoved away, though, as he brings up a leg to knee at the door as well, kicking his foot out with as much force as he can muster, praying to a God- no, not a God, but something else, something he can’t quite place

            (praying to a turtle)

            (not a turtle, _the_ Turtle)

            (but isn’t the Turtle dead?)

            that he’ll make it out of here somehow, that he’ll find a way to get out of this and get to go home, get to see his parents, pet his cat, help mend the farm, hug his friends. He doesn’t want to die when he’s less than a month away from turning eighteen, and he definitely doesn’t want to die confined in a Derry High bathroom, but the longer he wails for help, the more he starts to think that he’ll do just that.

            But then, finally, he gets a good push in, and perhaps it’s his strength mixed with the added pressure of the water that’s just now passing his knees that gets the door open, swinging wildly and slamming against the wall of the hallway.

            The water is gone, the smoke has vanished, and Mike is left alone, the sound of a running facet behind him and his own heavy breathing being the only noise he can hear over his heartbeat pounding angrily in his ears. In front of him, floating eerily still in the center of the doorway, there is a bright red balloon showing him his own shaken reflection. Much to his horror, the balloon begins to turn, and on the other side are big, blocky letters glimmering under the fluorescent light of the hallway.

**_REMEMBER ME, MIKEY?_ **

            Bewildered, and still struggling to catch his breath, Mike watches in astonishment as the balloon edges closer to him and then promptly pops. In the echo of the pop, he swears he can hear a distant laugh.

 

 

 

 

2

 

            “Does he seem a little off to you?”

            Eddie hums, following Beverly’s gaze across the field, landing on an oddly stone-faced Mike. From where they’re sitting on the bleachers, he can see how Mike’s brows are pinched together in concentration, tension clear in the way his shoulders hunch up as he kicks off the grass and bolts after someone from the opposite team. None of the losers have ever shown interest in playing flag football, especially when they only have three more days of PE, but Mike seemed ecstatic to join a team when Coach Anderson asked for people to participate. From Eddie’s left side, Richie lets out a little puff of air and shrugs. “Maybe. I dunno. I guess so, yeah.”

            “I can see it,” Eddie tells Beverly, frowning slightly as he watches Mike sprint across the field, more aggression in his stance than Eddie has ever seen before. “He just looks kind of… I don’t know how to explain it. Angry, kind of, but not really.”

            Beverly nods, clearly understanding what Eddie is trying to say, before pulling a pack of Winston’s out of her back pocket. She holds it out in a silent offer, but quickly pushes it back down to hide underneath her thigh when Coach starts to turn around, making his way over to the bleachers and looking up at them warily. “You know you don’t take any gym classes your senior year, right?” Coach calls up.

            “Well aware of it, Sir,” Richie responds with a grin. “God damn excited about it, too.”

            “Jesus Christ,” Eddie breathes, rolling his eyes – if Richie gets detention when summer is quite literally days away, Eddie’s going to fucking kill him.

            Thankfully, Coach is well aware of how Richie often speaks and lets out a chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. “Just reminding you, then. We’re not coming out tomorrow or Friday, so today’s your last chance to play.”

            “Thanks, Coach,” Beverly says, saluting with the hand that isn’t hiding a pack of cigarettes under her leg. “We’ll keep that in mind.” With that, the Coach seems satisfied, at least for the time being, and turns away to keeping refereeing the game on field. Once she deems him far away enough, Beverly withdraws the pack again and holds it out for Richie to pluck a cigarette out. She takes one out for herself and gets her lighter, first lighting Richie’s before lighting hers, then promptly shoves them back into her pocket. Letting smoke coil past her lips, she nods in Mike’s direction and tells them, “He’s been off since last period. I don’t know what happened, but he was fine when he went to go to the bathroom, and when he got back he was all… shaken up and quiet. I tried asking what was wrong, but he didn’t answer me.”

            “Huh.” Richie passes his cigarette to Eddie, who tries to crinkle his nose in disgust but ultimately accepts the offer and takes a slow drag. With a little frown, Richie meets Beverly’s gaze and points out, “Y’know, everyone’s been acting a little weird, even you. I think the only people who haven’t been acting weird are the other B’s.”

            Eddie falters, brows drawing together as he hands the cigarette back to Richie. “The other B’s?”

            Letting the cigarette hang between his lips, Richie looks at Eddie and nods. “Ben and Bill. Them and Bev make the three B’s, but since Bev was acting weird on Monday, I can’t say it was the three B’s.”

            “Fair enough,” Eddie murmurs, snatching the cigarette from Richie’s mouth to place it in his own, snickering lightly when Richie lets out a dramatic gasp. Ignoring Richie’s whines of protest claiming Eddie to be a thief, Eddie leans forward to meet Bev’s cautious gaze and asks, “Speaking of, why were you acting weird on Monday? And Sunday night, too. When I tried to call you, you hung up on me and didn’t answer my texts when I asked what was going on.”

            Beverly lets out a sigh, her breath tinged with the smoke of her own cigarette as she takes it between two fingers and flicks the ash off the side of the bleachers, watching as it tumbles to the grass below. “Nothing, really,” she answers, though her tone is oddly strained. Absentmindedly, she runs her fingertips over the curve of her knees, where there’s still faint bruising left over from when she’d fallen in her haste to scramble away from the bloody pipe in the Kenduskeag. “I just… I saw something weird, but it was gone, like, a second after I saw it. Figured it was just stress or something, but it still…” She trails off, shrugs, and takes another long, slow drag of her cigarette. “It just gave me a bad feeling, I guess. Still does, when I look back at it.”

            Eddie, who had been listening with interest already, suddenly tenses as he remembers the day of Ben’s birthday party, when he could have sworn he saw what appeared to be a blurry missing poster of—

            “What’d you see?” Richie asks, intrigued. He uses Eddie’s lapse in focus to his advantage and takes the cigarette back, his lips already upturned in a smug smile that instantly falls when Eddie doesn’t react. Looking over, he frowns, seeing that Eddie’s gone unusually pale under the warm early afternoon sunlight, causing him to nudge his shoulder into Eddie’s and quietly question, “You okay?”

            “Mhm,” Eddie lets out shakily, blinking away the cloudiness in his eyes as he avoids Richie’s gaze and looks back at Beverly. Softly, he repeats Richie’s question, asking, “What’d you see, Bev?”

            For a long moment, Beverly doesn’t answer, her jaw set and her features steeled over, until, eventually, she states, “Blood.” This causes Richie to blink slowly in uncertain shock whilst Eddie sucks in a sharp breath. Flicking the rest of her cigarette away, not caring much about the fact that there’s still half of it left, she asks, “What about you?”

            Eddie licks his lower lip nervously, reaching out to take the cigarette from Richie, who is already holding it out with his brows drawn together in concern. “A poster,” he says softly, his gaze glued to the bleacher, watching as his shoes scuff against the metal as he places the Winston between his lips and lets it hang there. “Missing poster, like the ones for Betty Ripsom, except it was- it was blurry as fuck, I couldn’t tell who is was at first, but it… after looking at it for a while, it looked like- like Richie. It looked like a missing poster of Richie.”

            “Wait, _what?!”_ Richie exclaims, his eyes bugging out of the sockets as he ducks his head down to force Eddie into meeting his frantic gaze. “Eds, are you serious? Are you—”

            “That’s what it looked like!” Eddie interrupts, words somewhat muffled by the cigarette in his mouth. “But when I looked back a minute later, it was just a poster of Betty again, so I thought- fuck, I don’t know! I just thought my eyes were acting up and I moved on!” Openly gaping down at Eddie, both bewildered and mildly terrified, Richie finds himself completely speechless, unable to grasp for a way to respond. Letting out a rough sigh, Eddie brings a hand up to rub at his temple and carelessly spits the cigarette out, letting it fall through the bleachers and to the grass below. “ _Shit_ , I’m getting a headache.”

            Though still flabbergasted by what he just heard, Richie finds it easier to push his own shock away as he asks, “Again? That’s the fifth one this week. I thought you refilled your meds.”

            “I _did_ ,” Eddie says, “but they’re not working very well. I probably need to make an appointment or something, try upping the dose and see if that helps.”

            “Rich,” Beverly mumbles, grabbing their attention instantly. Eddie doesn’t drop his hand, hoping that the pressure will help ease the throbbing, but he does drop the conversation in favor of turning to her, Richie doing the same. The both of them are shocked to find her look calmer than either of them feels, almost relaxed and at ease with the current situation. “You didn’t include yourself when you were talking about who wasn’t acting weird. What happened to you?”

            Richie parts his lips, then promptly sinks his teeth into his lower lip, wishing that Eddie hadn’t dropped that cigarette so that he’d have something to hold onto while he tries to figure out how to word something that he still, even after multiple days of thinking back on it, does not understand. Still, though, he attempts to explain, “On Sunday, I, uh- I got home from the Quarry, you know? And my house was fucking trashed, cans and bottles and shit covering everything and, um… my dad, he was hammered, and just acting really weird and mean. I couldn’t even find my mom when I looked around, but on Monday morning, they were both in the kitchen and neither of them knew what I was talking about when I brought it up. They remembered something completely different. It was… strange, to say the least. I thought I dreamed it, to be honest.”

            “Why didn’t you tell me?” Eddie murmurs, grimacing.

            “Same reason I didn’t tell anyone,” Beverly answers in place for Richie, her tone gentle. It’s clear to anyone who knows Richie that his friends and his family are always his top priority, and to have something so strange happen with his parents must have been a very overwhelming experience. “Same reason you didn’t tell anyone about the poster. Same reason why Mike’s playing flag football instead of telling someone what’s wrong.”

            Begrudgingly, Eddie nods to show he understands, quietly stating, “Because we didn’t think it was real.”

            With a huff that’s equal parts humorless and afraid, Richie muses, “Now I kind of want to join Mike down on that field. Do you think it’s actually helpful? Running around like he is?”

            “I think it’s more helpful than smoking,” Eddie snorts, reaching around Richie to pluck the pack of Winston’s from Beverly’s back pocket and take out another. “But I don’t feel like running right now, so smoking it is.”

 

 

 

 

3

 

            Sometimes, storms roll in slowly. It could be a cloud or two, followed by a few more. It could be a trickle of rain, a subtle breeze that picks up speed and turns into a harsh wind. It could be a slight chill that doesn’t belong in the mid-June air, a chill that travels down spines and hints at a cold that’ll hit soon. It could be a dozen things, a hundred things, a million things, all pointing towards something bigger to come – a warning of sorts, a whisper telling everyone to get inside before it gets worse.

            This is not one of those storms.

            From where Georgie is standing in the Derry Middle School parking lot waiting for Bill to pick him up, he swears that it goes from a perfectly sunny day to a flash flood in approximately ten seconds. He doesn’t get any sort of warning, any chill or breeze or dotted cloud, before his clothes are soaked through and the sound of rain hitting the pavement is all he can hear. With a surprised shout, he scrambled for the zipper of his backpack, grateful now that his mother forces him to carry a compact umbrella with him everywhere he goes, even in the early summer. As he tries to get his bag open, though, he catches a glimpse of something across the street – something moving against the current of the stream of water, against the direction of the wind. Already intrigued by an act that should be impossible, Georgie momentarily forgets his mission to locate his umbrella and lets his backpack fall back to where it had been originally, tossed over one of his shoulders and bumping against his back with every breath.

            The object, of which he is too far away from to see clearly, comes to a stop directly across the street from where he stands, as if waiting for him to approach it. Logically, he knows he shouldn’t, knows he should take cover in the school and wait until Bill gets here to emerge, but there’s something that pulls him in, as if someone has tied a rope around his waist and is tugging him forward. Unable to resist, Georgie follows the pull, stumbling his way off the sidewalk and into the street, mindlessly putting each foot forward, cold shivers running down his spine from the rain and the wind, but he doesn’t care. He keeps moving until the mystery object is right in front of him, and through squinted eyes and dripping strands of hair that have fallen in his face, he sees a boat floating

            (you’ll float too)

            in the stream, bobbing up and down as it somehow fights the current in order to stay precisely where it is, and on the side, in a familiar scrawl, are the words **S.S. GEORGIE**

            (you’ve floated before, kid)

            written in big, black letters. Something about this boat is alluring, making him want to pick it up and take it home, cherish it forever and always, but when he reaches down t grab it, all he can do is brush his fingertips against the top before it suddenly shoots off down- no, not down- up the stream, once against going against the current at a speed that leaves Georgie chasing after it in high pursuit. In the back of his mind, he realizes how crazy this is, running after a paper boat that shouldn’t be moving the way it is, but it feels like he isn’t in control of his body, like his consciousness is suspended

            (floating, floating, floating like you did, floating like you will, floating like you should)

            far above him and watching helplessly as he dashes down the street.

            A trance, that’s what it is. Georgie is in a trance, unable to stop himself as rain pelts him from head to toe, and god, he’s glad he already returned his school books because they’d be sopping wet and destroyed by now if he hadn’t. Chucking over a couple hundred bucks to pay for those is not something he wants to try explaining to his parents later, especially if the reason for it was because of this, because of him being struck in his head and unable to make himself duck out of the rain.

            He doesn’t know how long he runs, or even where he’s going until the boat comes to a stop once more. With a gasp for air, his chest heaving from exerting so much energy in order to keep sprinting, he stumbles his way to a halt, hunching over with his hands on his knees. The boat sits there and waits, seemingly patient, as he catches his breath, until finally he can stand up straight and his heart has slowed to a regular pace. Only then, when he has the chance to look around and see where he is, does the boat move again, only this time is goes straight into the same sewer drain that Georgie could have sworn he saw someone nearly a month ago.

            Georgie watches, oddly speechless and enraptured as the boat disappears into the darkness, and when those glowing yellow eyes appear again, he doesn’t even jump. No, he expects It, anticipates It. He is familiar with this unfamiliar presence, in a way he cannot understand.

            It, whatever It is, begins to speak to him, but not with It’s mouth, no, not out loud. In a voice, loud and clear, ringing in Georgie’s mind like alarm bells, telling him

            (you were the start of it all, i know that for sure, i know you were, i was there, i did it, i made you float, made you float many times, i did, floated like a balloon, floated like a boat, yes you did)

            the oddest things, the strangest gurgled sentences that make no sense but, somehow, Georgie is not confused. No, he hears It, and he gets It. He knows what It is talking about, despite the fact that he has no idea at all.

            (many memories, i have so many, so many memories, and oh, george, this is it, this is the time to get it right, this is when i finally succeed, because i have not, no, i have not succeeded, not before now, i have only been defeated three times over, three, three, three times over, not by you, but by b-b-b-billy and the slut and the librarian and the suicidal jew and wheezy and fat boy and trashmouth and oh, oh no, oh my, they have won, they have, three, like i said, three times over, and they have won, won, won, but no they have not, because i am here, i have survived, i have skipped from timeline to timeline, i have healed and grown and i have developed and i am here, george, i am here, and you are alive, and that is the key, yes it is, because every time that i have lost, i killed you first, so this time you won’t die, no you won’t, you’ll live for me, you’ll live by me, you’ll live, live, live, and you’ll float, float, float, but not until after i get the others, not until after i finally win)

            Time is not of concern, not right now. No, Georgie has not a single care for how much time goes by as he stares into these bright yellow eyes glowing up at him through the darkness of the storm drain, not blinking, not flickering. A steady gaze, a comforting gaze, and somehow, in the middle of a rain storm, Georgie feels warm, both inside and out.

            (you are the key to my success, yes you are, the key to it all, the key to never having to jump to another timeline again, the key, the key, they key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the)

            The eyes disappear and the voice cuts off as a hand suddenly clamps down on his shoulder, and all at once Georgie returns to his body, a tremor running through him from head to toe so suddenly that he nearly collapses. The only thing that keeps him from falling to his knees is Bill’s arms wrapping around his waist to hold him up, and faintly, behind the ringing in his ears and the rain still pounding against the pavement and the thunder roaring overhead, he can hear Bill shouting his name, but he does not respond. He only watches, vaguely aware that Bill is dragging him backwards and pushing him into his car, as those yellow eyes appear once more just to send him a wink.

 

 

 

 

4

 

            “Simplify the expression, don’t solve it,” Ben murmurs to himself, narrowed eyes scanning over the problems in front of him, struggling to remember the instructions Beverly gave him on Sunday. He wishes he didn’t have to study alone, wishes he could have been with Bill, Stan, and Eddie when they were studying together, but he has math at a different time than them and therefore has to study alone. Thankfully, he’s got a better grasp at these specific problems, the ones that are admittedly very simple but never fail to go over his head. Quietly, he continues to mutter the steps to himself as he writes them down, occasionally glancing over at the problem that Beverly had solved for him at the library to double check that he’s doing it right. He does this for the next problem, and the next, and the next, and the next, until he doesn’t need to reference the sheet anymore to figure it out, and only then does he lean back with a tired sigh and give himself a moment of rest.

            Outside, the rain is pouring down in buckets, hitting his bedroom window at such an intense velocity that Ben fears it may shatter the glass and flood his home, but it’s an irrational fear and he knows it, so he quickly shoves it to the back burner. As heavy as the rain may be, he has to admit that it’s a beautiful sight, the way the street glistens in the low lighting caused by a sunset hidden behind the clouds. If he’s not mistaken, he heard thunder rumbling about ten minutes ago, which means there’ll be lightning flashing soon enough. With Derry’s luck, that lightning will start a fire somewhere important, but whatever it is will look stunning as it collapses into a pile of ash and flames, no doubt. That’s the thing about this town, Ben has come to realize – disaster is inevitable and great, but it’s god damn beautiful when it strikes.

            He’s so caught up in this train of thought that he almost misses the movement outside his window, but then he sees red and he snaps back to reality because, sitting there, looking perfectly fine despite being in the middle of a storm, is a bright red balloon, hovering

            (floating, benny boy, it’s floating)

            just far enough away from his window to see it. Bewildered, Ben brings his hands up to rub at his eyes, and when he opens them again, the balloon is gone. Letting out a soft sigh, one that he can’t tell is out of relief or not, he goes to turn back to his homework, only to let out a strangles yelp as he sees the red has been transferred to his hands in the form of two bloody puddles swelling from cuts in his palms that had not been there moments before, dripping onto

 

 

 

 

5

 

            the floor of the kitchen is cold beneath Beverly’s bare feet as she stands at the sink, her arms buried elbow-deep in soapy suds that tickle her skin when she moves. From where she is, she can faintly hear the sound of her parents playfully bickering in the living room over the white noise of the TV, which had been turned down after the movie they were watching ended. Humming lightly under her breath, she takes her time scrubbing the dishes clean and setting them aside to dry once they’ve all been washed.

            She has, for the most part, managed to keep her dizzying questions about the discoveries made earlier today at bay for the sake of a sense of normalcy. Which is, of course, not an easy task after the revelation that her and her friends are, assumedly, all experiencing something far from normal. Something that makes absolutely no sense and gives her a headache when she tries to think about it. Christ, she may need to borrow some of Eddie’s meds. Not like they’re helping him much, anyway. Might be more useful if she were the one to take them. Eddie probably wouldn’t agree, but if she begs enough, maybe he’ll cave on handing over a pill or two. If anything else, Richie will sneak her some and Eddie will forgive him in an instant, and Beverly’s headache’s will be gone.

            Headache’s gone, yes. The problems that are causing the headaches, though? No, those aren’t going anywhere. Not yet. Not any time soon, either, if the dread pressing against her ribcage is any indication. She’s not an oracle or anything, but this feels like more than uneasiness. This feels like something much bigger than any struggle she’s ever faced before. Than anything any of them could even imagine facing.

            Something that may be the last thing they ever face.

            But that’s kind of shitty to think about, and Beverly has had a wonderfully normal evening with her parents, watching some old movies and eating dinner together, and she doesn’t really want this night to be ruined with a bunch of overthinking. So, after shaking off her hands and sending another text Mike’s way – still no response or explanation for his earlier behavior, though Beverly now has a better idea of why he’s gone radio silent and is actively avoiding thinking about what it is he may have seen – she pulls up one of her favorite playlists and lets the music fill the room. Now with a little pep in her step, she takes a a folded hand towel out from under the sink and gets to work on drying the dishes she just finished washing.

            Within seconds, the bright white hand towel is a deep, dark red.

            Shocked, Beverly lets the plate she was drying slip out of her grasp and shatter on the linoleum floor, the noise sounding far away as she turns her hands over and drops the towel to examine her palms, where twin cuts have been carved into her skin. Oddly enough, she can’t feel any pain, can’t even really feel the blood as it drips between her fingers, but it’s there, oh, yes it is, the crimson is bright and stark in contrast against her pale complexion, and with a heaving gasp, she takes a stumbled step backwards into

 

 

 

 

6

 

             the living room of the Hanlon household never fails to be a comfortable, cozy place for Mike to sit back, relax, and spend time with his parents. After the incredibly strange day he had – he still isn’t sure if what happened in the bathroom was some kind of hallucination or if it was real – having a nice evening with his folks, phone turned off and left upstairs, is exactly what he needs.

            Right now, he’s helping his mom fold the laundry she just pulled out of the dryer, his grandpa’s record player casting pleasant music through the room, which he happily sways along to as he stacks pairs of folded jeans onto the sofa he’s siting on. “Is there another load in the dryer, or is this it?” he asks as he reaches for one of his father’s shirts, twisting his body around to place it in the pile of William’s clothes that will be put on hangers and hung up later.

            “There’s one more,” Jessica answers her son, her smile sweet and smooth like sugar and honey as she grins Mike’s way, “but you don’t have to help with that one. It’s getting late, and you still have school tomorrow. After this load is folded, you should head upstairs and get ready for bed.”

            “I can help,” Mike tries to insist, though even as he says it he has to suppress a yawn, his mind and his body exhausted from the day he had.

            With a little laugh, Jessica shakes her head and tells him, “No, you can’t. Help me finish up this pile and then go lay down, Mikey.”

            Mike winces at the name Mikey, an image of the red balloon flashing through his mind, but he offers her a smile and a nod before turning his gaze back down to the blanket he’d been folding over during their conversation. He drops the blanket altogether, though, when he sees red smears seeping into the fabric, and when he tries to find the source of the sudden stains, he sees that it’s coming from him, blood drip-drip-dripping from his hands. With a shout of surprise, he scrambles to his feet and holds his hands out in front of him, watching in horror as the blood starts dripping onto the floor, and he cries, “Christ, my _hands!_ What the hell?!”

            “What?” Jessica asks, looking alarmed as she gets to her feet. She takes a hold of his wrists and examines his palms, but even as the blood gets on his fingers and stains her clothes, she looks at him in confusion. “Mikey, what’s wrong with your hands? What are you

 

 

 

 

7

 

            talking about, Stanley?”

            Stan gapes at his father, blurry-eyed gaze flickering from his open bedroom door to the bloody mess in front of him, blood that he isn’t quite sure the source of. Blood that his parents, apparently, cannot see. “I—” he starts, only to snap his jaw shut and shake his head, trying to suppress the panic building in his chest as he swallows the lump in his throat, thickly murmuring, “Nothing. Sorry for scaring you.”

            His parents look unconvinced, brows creased with worry and concern, but they seem to sense that he wants to be alone and close the door as they leave. In the silence that follows their departure, Stan lets out a shaky breath, holding his arms out in an attempt to examine himself closely, trying to figure out where, exactly, he’s bleeding from, since he feels no pain and there’s so much blood coating his skin that it’s hard to locate it’s source. For a moment, it almost look like he’s dipped his hands in red paint up to the wrist, but somehow, with a logic that is not at all logical, he knows that this is not paint.

         (just like it wasn’t paint when you slit your wrists and wrote on the wall, but oh, oh my, did your friends wish it was, oh yes, they wished and wished and wished that it was theatrics, that you would walk through that door and be perfectly fine, but no, no, no, you were dead, stanley, a dead man indeed)

“What the hell _is_ this,” he mumbles to himself, turning his head in an attempt to wipe his confused tears onto his shoulder so that he won’t smear

            (your blood your blood your blood your blood your blood your blood your blood your blood your blood your blood your blood your blood your blood your blood your blood your blood your blood your)

            blood on his face. Coming to the conclusion that he won’t be able to think clearly until he’s cleaned up, he reaches over, flinching at the way blood drips onto his carpeted floor, and grabs a towel out of his dirty laundry hamper. Immediately, he uses it to scrub at his skin, wiping his arms

 

 

 

 

8

 

            clean up,” Bill instructs, tossing a towel in Georgie’s direction before spinning around to dig for clean clothes. Realistically, he knows that he could just go down the hall and get some of Georgie’s clothes out of his room, but the idea of leaving Georgie alone for even a second after what he just witnessed makes his heart speed up anxiously. Besides, Georgie has a habit of stealing his clothes anyway. Lending him some won’t hurt.

            “I am cleaned up,” Georgie murmurs, staring down at the towel in his lap with blank eyes.

            Bill frowns, pausing his mission in order to look at Georgie over his shoulder. “You’re soaked from the rain,” he states. “You haven’t stopped shivering since I found you, and your lips are turning blue. Use that,” he points to the towel, “and start drying yourself off. I’m getting you some new clothes now, and then you’re gonna wrap up in, like, twenty blankets until your teeth stop chattering and I know you won’t get hypothermia.”

            For a moment, Georgie doesn’t respond, and Bill fears that he’s slipped back into whatever daze he had been in when he found him standing in the rain, but then he blinks and curtly nods. “Okay.”

            Still monotone and completely different from Georgie’s usual energy, but better than nothing, Bill supposes. With a sigh, he turns back around to keep digging through his dresser until he finally pulls out a pair of old sweatpants and long sleeved shirt, both of which are definitely too big for Georgie but will suffice in warming him back up. “Here,” he says, turning back around with the clothes extended in Georgie’s direction, only to nearly jump out of his skin when Georgie is standing less than a foot away from him.

            “Your hands,” Georgie tells him before he can do more than let out a loud curse in surprise. Confused, Bill parts his lips to ask what he’s talking about, but then Georgie reaches forward and grabs Bill’s wrist, turning his arm over to reveal blood pooling in his hand. Bill watches, shell shocked, as Georgie does the same with his other arm, showing that both of his palms have, somehow, been cut into. Still stone-faced and quiet, Georgie meets Bill’s eyes and whispers, “There’s something bad happening in

 

 

 

 

9

 

            _Derry is a shithole_ , Richie sends as he falls back onto his bed with a loud sigh. His body is aching and complaining, begging him to go to sleep already, but he can’t succumb to this request when he’s in the middle of a very important conversation. Though it’s not really the conversation that’s important, more so the person he’s having the conversation with, but still. Sleep is now and always will be a second priority when he’s talking to—

            His phone buzzes in his hand. _Tell me something I don’t know_ , Eddie has responded, drawing out a snort as Richie reads over the words. Another buzz, followed by a new message: _Are your parents acting weird again?_

            Which is a simple question, but the sentiment still makes Richie grin as he replies, _Nope! All is good in the Tozier house. Any more missing posters with my face on them?_

            _Not a single one, thank god,_ Eddie sends back, and Richie can practically see Eddie snickering in his mind. An easy image to conjure up, since Richie has witnessed every variation of Eddie laughing enough times to have the visual and the audio committed to memory.

            _That’s good,_ Richie types, but in the place where his thumbs touch his screen, fingerprints are left behind. Not regular fingerprints, no – red ones, dripping ones. Ones that glimmer under his bedroom light and contort the letters on his screen and make his heart stutter to a stop as he scrambles into a sitting position, phone falling forgotten in his lap as he examines his hands closely. Across both his palms are jagged gashes that he cannot feel and that he has no idea how they got there. Throat constricting, he ignoring the blood covering his hands and picks his phone up again, following his instincts as he pulls up Eddie’s contact and presses call. His breaths get caught in his throat as he listens to the phone ring and ring and ring and

            (maybe he won’t answer you, not this time, no, maybe he’ll forget you, maybe they all will)

            ring until Eddie finally picks up and breathes out, “Is it happening

 

 

 

 

10

 

            to you, too?”

            “What, the- the cuts?” Richie asks, and even through his phone, Eddie can hear his voice shaking, and he can see it in his mind, can see Richie sitting in his bed, pale and afraid.

            “Yeah,” Eddie swallows roughly, staring down at his own hands, his phone sitting next to him on speaker. He can’t look away from the blood that collects in his palms, almost mesmerized by the way it pools over and drips onto his thighs, onto his duvet, a deep red that captures his attention like a flame captures the attention of a moth. “And the blood,” he adds. “Is this the blood Bev was talking about?”

            After a moment, Richie mumbles, “No, I don’t think so. But, Eds, what- what the fuck is this?”

            “I…” Eddie trails off, shaking his head as he finally tears his gaze away from his own hands, looking up at the wall blankly, and for a moment he thinks he sees a word there, painted in his own blood, but when he blinks, it’s gone. Still, he recited that word to Richie in a voice so quiet and so scared that he fears it may not be heard at all. “Promise. It’s a

 

 

 

 

11

 

            _promise, promise, promise, that’s all it is._

_A promise, oh yes, a promise indeed. Crossed fingers and empty words and blood oaths, a promise. A big one, too, because this is the first time It has made a promise of It’s own. It has seen them promise, It was watched the power of a promise, and It is ready to use that power for It’s benefit._

_Time and time again, It has lost to these kids, these children and their promises, and this time It will not lose. This time, It will not be reduced to a state so weak that It’s only option for survival is to jump to another timeline and wait until It’s healed from It’s wounds. No, no more timeline skipping, no more of that._

_This time, It is going to do this right._

_This time, It is going to win._

_And that… that is not a threat. That is a promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boop boop hope u liked this chappy >:)


	4. Derry: An Unauthorized Town History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn’t make sense. None of it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost a full month since the last update, and the new chapter has arrived. she's a little late,,,, my bad.
> 
> also tHANK U SARA (richietoaster on here and on tumblr) FOR BETA'ING THIS FOR ME UR THE BEST AND ILY

1

_June 16, 2018 – 11:08 am_

 

            The relief that should come with the end of the school year has been outweighed by the dread of having to figure out the mystery of what’s going on. Instead of celebrating the next three months of freedom, they’re meeting here, at the Quarry, to have a long and serious discussion about the—

            Stan doesn’t know what to call it. The situation, he supposes, but it feels like much more than that. It feels like goosebumps on his arms and an indescribable fear clawing its way up his throat until his voice is too hoarse to speak. It feels like bloody stains on his bedroom carpet that his parents can’t see and scars on his palms that were fresh wounds merely three days ago. It feels like the end of the world.

            It feels like unavoidable death on the horizon.

            Absentmindedly, he runs his right pointer finger over the raised skin on the palm of his left hand, feeling the way it curves, and if he were to look down, he would see the white line – the same white line that’s also on his right palms, and on the palms of all of his friends. The scars that came from the cuts, cuts that disappeared over night and only left behind the vaguest sign that they were ever there.

            He can still hear the shake in Bill’s voice when they were in math, about to take their final, and he spotted the same scars on both Stan’s and Eddie’s hands. He’d grabbed their wrists, examined them closely, and shook his head, completely baffled. “Did all of us get these?” he had asked, sounding petrified in a way that Stan still only semi-understands.

            “I know Richie did,” Eddie had answered, taking his wrist out of Bill’s grip and grimacing down at his palms. “I don’t know about the others, but I think it’s safe to assume the answer is yes.”

            Stan didn’t speak up then, his mind racing, and still hasn’t uttered a word about it. When he took that final, he couldn’t focus on the problems in front of him. He knows he didn’t do a very good job. He also doesn’t care. The only thing he does care about is trying to understand what’s happening to him and his friends, but part of him thinks that understanding it will be impossible.

            As he’s thinking, his eyes fall to the water in front of him – the expanse of the beautiful Derry Quarry, the place he’s always loved to be at, but right now he hates it. No one else is here, leaving him alone and confused, his gaze focusing on the spot where he had seen that strange reflection of something that wasn’t there; where that drop of blood had appeared and then immediately vanished. Where he thought he saw himself, only younger, the sides of his face caked with sickly, red blood. Where he first started feeling the heaviness that still sits in the pit of his stomach and makes his insides churn uncomfortably. He feels as though he would be hunched over and vomiting up the toast he had for breakfast if his stomach were weaker, but he’s never been much of a puker, so the bile only sits and burns in the very back of his throat before he swallows it back down and lets out a shaky, uneven breath.

            He doesn’t hear the sound of approaching footsteps over his own heartbeat that echoes in his ears, but he sees out of the corner of his eye when Mike silently sits beside him, already gazing out at the water with a strained expression.

            That’s another issue that’s been on Stan’s mind, among the hundreds of questions that he can’t possibly answer, at least not now and not on his own – Mike has been acting very strange since Wednesday. Which is to be expected, really, since that’s the night the cuts appeared, but he was acting strange before the cuts happened. He had been stiff and silent when he offered to drive Stan home, only to not utter a single word the entire drive. Stan had been sure he’d done something to piss Mike off, but the smile that Mike gave him before leaving had been kind and genuine, if not a little forced, and the idea that Mike was mad at him was quickly swiped off the table. But that’s left him the ponder over what happened to make Mike act so off.

            Up until this point, Stan’s been too afraid to ask, but he has a feeling that he’s going to find out today. He has the feeling that all of them are going to find out about a lot of things that they weren’t previously aware of. He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

            It isn’t until he feels Mike’s hand on his own that he realizes he’s gone from tracing over the scar on his palm to angrily scratching at it, to the point that he’s surprised he hasn’t broken the skin yet. Mike doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask if Stan’s okay or not. He only takes Stan’s hand, intertwines their fingers, and holds on like the world with collapse around them if he lets go.

            This is a scary time for both of them, Stan knows. This is a scary time for all of them.

            With a shaky exhale that sounds like a borderline sob, Stan lets the comforting gesture wash over him. He leans over slightly, letting his head rest on Mike’s shoulder and fluttering his eyes shut to stop himself from staring helplessly at the Quarry. In his mind, he can still see the reflection warped by the ripples in the water, but it’s easier to look at that than it is to scan over his surroundings and expect something else to pop up.

            Mike tips his head to the side to rest on top of Stan’s. Neither of them speak up about the things on their minds. There’s no need. Words couldn’t do their fear justice, anyway.

 

 

 

 

2

 

            Eddie’s head hurts.

            That’s the thing that he’s been focusing on, the headache throbbing behind his eyes and echoing within his skull. It hurts like hell, making him feel dizzy whenever he tries to turn too fast or gets to his feet too quickly. Whenever he blinks, opening his eyes feels like lifting a hundred pounds. The sunlight brings tears to his eyes and makes him wince.

            “Here,” Richie says, sliding a pair of sunglasses onto the slope of Eddie’s nose and dropping five bucks onto the counter of the pharmacy, where Dr. Keene is, once again, taking his sweet time in grabbing the prescription Eddie needs. The glasses are cheap and simple, but the tinted lenses do the trick on blocking out some of the light. Eddie almost cries out of instant relief. “Even if the upped dose helps, it’ll still take a little bit to kick in. These will help, right?”

            Nodding, Eddie offers a little smile in what he hopes shows his gratitude. Richie doesn’t press for a verbal answer, because he knows Eddie too well and he knows that trying to talk with a migraine as bad as this could very well end with a puddle of vomit on the ground between them. Dr. Keene probably wouldn’t be too happy about having to clean that up. It’s best to just let Richie do the talking for now, not that that’s much of a problem. As Richie likes to claim, it is a gift, after all.

            Leaning onto the counter besides where Eddie stands, Richie begins to rattle off whatever comes to mind, though he makes sure to keep his voice softer than usual, not wanting to make Eddie’s headache even worse, but Eddie appreciates the conversation nonetheless. Hearing Richie talk has always been a nice distraction to keep him from thinking about the pain in his head, no matter how many times he’s claimed Richie to be the reason for his headaches in the first place. Everyone knows that isn’t even close to being true. He doesn’t bother comprehending what it is Richie’s talking about, instead just tuning in to the sound of his voice and letting that comfort him while they wait. When Dr. Keene suddenly clears his throat to grab their attention, Eddie jumps in surprise and immediately lets out a pained groan at the way the motion causes his head to throb even more.

            “Is that all?” Dr. Keene asks, monotone and clearly not interested in striking up some friendly chit-chat, not that Eddie’s going to complain.

            Richie points to the sunglasses on Eddie’s face. “Those, too, but I’m paying for them.” Then, as if to back up his statement, he slides the five dollar bill further across the counter and uses that same hand to grab the little paper bag with Eddie’s meds. As Dr. Keene slowly rings them up, Richie takes out the little bottle and shakes two out to rest on his palm, only to stop and look around quickly. To Dr. Keene, he adds, “And a bottle of water,” before dashing to the aisle farthest from them and grab a water bottle. Making his way back to Eddie’s side, who is gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut while he clutches onto the counter out of fear that he’ll collapse if he isn’t holding onto something, Richie brings his hands up to Eddie’s mouth and instructs, “Open.” Obediently, Eddie does, letting the pills fall onto his tongue and keeping his lips parted while Richie twists the cap off and guides the water bottle to Eddie’s mouth as well. Once the water has washed the pills down his throat, Eddie gives a small nod and Richie pulls the bottle away, frowning when Eddie releases his grip on the counter and sways slightly in place.

            “You’re good to go,” Dr. Keene murmurs, either not paying attention to what’s going on or not caring in the slightest. Eddie considers opening his eyes just to glare at him, but he knows that he needs to give himself a minute to do so or else his breakfast will lurch out of his stomach faster than he can utter a word of warning.

            “Are you okay?” Richie asks quietly, screwing the cap to the water back on and shoving both the bottle and the prescription bag into his mostly empty backpack before taking a small step forward, letting Eddie lean against him for support. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip in concern when he notices the sheen of sweat coating Eddie’s skin, which is much paler than normal. When Eddie shakily nods, Richie doesn’t believe him, instead saying, “We can skip out on the Quarry, Eds. The others will understand.”

            Speaking up for the first time since he woke up, Eddie roughly insists, “I’ll be fine, Rich.”

            Richie lets out a small sigh, knowing that Eddie hates being babied like this, but he can’t help it. A bit meek, he points out, “I haven’t seen you like this since the last time you went to the hospital, okay? I’m just… a little worried here. I don’t want you to go through that again.”

            “I won’t,” Eddie says, slowly blinking his eyes open. Even with the help from the sunglasses, the light makes him wince, but it’s already a little bit more manageable. He knows that the meds haven’t kicked in yet, seeing as it’s only been a minute or two since he took them, but knowing that they will kick in soon is enough to make him push through the pain. When he sees the way Richie is looking at him, though, with his already magnified eyes wide behind his glasses, brows creased in worry and biting his lower lip like he doesn’t want to say anything that’ll make Eddie upset, he can feel any remaining frustration melting away. Instead of snapping, like he originally wanted to, he offers a reassuring smile and promises, “If it doesn’t get better in the next hour, I’ll let you know and we’ll leave, okay?”

            It’s not exactly what he wanted, but Richie supposes that’s enough. He returns the smile and nods, using one arm to gesture towards the entrance to the Center Street Convenience Store and wrapping the other one around Eddie’s shoulders to keep him steady, just in case he starts feeling woozy again. “After you,” he says, allowing Eddie to lead the way out the doors and onto the street. The sun makes Eddie’s stomach twist, but they reach Richie’s car in record time, so it isn’t too bad.

            Clambering into the driver’s seat, Richie takes off his backpack and hands it to Eddie, who’s already sitting in the passenger’s seat and holding his hands out expectantly. As Richie starts to car and pulls out of the parking spot, Eddie takes his prescription out of Richie’s bag before letting it fall to the floor. It’s a bit pointless now, seeing as he already took two of the pills, but he always likes to examine the bottle when he gets a refill to make sure it’s the right stuff. Which is why he quickly digs through the little paper bag to retrieve said bottle, only for his fingers to brush over something foreign, something he can’t quite place.

            He pulls out a piece of paper – not like the regular instructions that comes with his medication, but an old, worn down pager that appears to have been ripped out of some kind of book or journal. The page is covered on both sides with an oddly familiar scrawl, though he can’t quite place why the handwriting looks like something he’s seen before. Curious, he brings it a bit closer to his face so that he can read it without straining his eyes too much. It becomes clear that this page is missing a lot, because it appears to start in the middle of a sentence.

 

 

_But you remember, anyhow, Mikey. Like before.”_

_“No. I looked it up in my address book.”_

_Another long silence. Then: “You didn’t remember?”_

_“Nope.”_

_“No shit?”_

_“No shit.”_

_“Then this time it’s really over,” he said, and the relief in his voice was unmistakable._

_“Yes, I think so.”_

_That long-distance silence fell again—all the miles between Maine and California. I believe we were both thinking the same thing: it was over, yes, and in six weeks or six months, we will have forgotten all about each other. It’s over, and all it cost us is out friendship and Stan and Eddie’s lives. I’ve almost forgotten them, you know it? Horrible as it may sound, I have almost forgotten Stan and Eddie. Was it asthma Eddie had, or chronic migraine? I’ll be damned if I can remember for sure, although I think it was migraine. I’ll ask Bill. He’ll know._

_“Well, you say hi to Bill and that pretty wife of his,” Richie said with a cheeriness that sounded canned._

_“I will, Richie,” I said, closing my eyes and rubbing my forehead. He remembered Bill’s wife was in Derry… but not her name, or what had happened to her._

_“And if you’re ever in L.A., you got the number. We’ll get together and mouth some chow.”_

_“Sure.” I felt hot tears behind my eyes. “And if you get back this way, the same thing goes.”_

_“Mikey?”_

_“Right here.”_

_“I love you, man.”_

_“Same here.”_

_“Okay. Keep your thumb on it.”_

_“Beep-beep, Richie.”_

_He laughed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Stick it in your ear, Mike. Ah say, in yo ear, boy.”_

_He hung up and so did I. Then I lay back on my pillows with my eyes shut and didn’t open them for a long time._

            Eddie blinks slowly, completely lost. This appears to be a journal entry, then – but more than that, a journal entry from Mike (he can now easily identify the handwriting as Mike’s, now that he’s thinking about it) talking about a phone call with Richie. A phone call in which they mention Bill having a wife, and a journal entry where it’s stated that him and Stan are dead. Where, apparently, Richie and Mike are both struggling to remember them.

            Swallowing thickly, he turns the page over to read the other side.

 

 

_June 7th, 1985_

_Police Chief Andrew Rademacher, who took over from Chief Botton in the late sixties, is dead. It was a bizarre accident, one I can’t help associating with what has been happening in Derry… what has just ended in Derry._

_The combination police-station-courthouse stands on the edge of the area that fell into the Canal, and while it didn’t go, the up-heaval—or the flood—must have caused structure damage of which no one was aware._

_Rademacher was working late in his office last night, the story in the paper says, as he has every night since the storm and the flood. The Police Chiefs office has been moved from the third to the fifth floor since the old days, to just below an attic where all sorts of records and useless city artifacts are stored. One of those artifacts was the tramp-chair I have described earlier in these pages. It was made of iron and weighed better than four hundred pounds. The building shipped a quantity of water during the downpour of May 31st, and that must have weakened the attic floor (or so the paper says). Whatever the reason, the tramp-chair fell from the attic directly onto Chief Rademacher as he sat at his desk, reading accident reports. He was killed instantly. Officer Bruce Andeen rushed in and found him lying on the ruins of his shattered desk, his pen still in one hand._

_Talked to Bill on the phone again. Audra is taking some solid food, he says, but otherwise there is no change. I asked him if Eddie’s big problem had been asthma or migraine._

_“Asthma,” he said promptly. “Don’t you remember his aspirator?”_

_“Sure,” I said, and did. But only when Bill mentioned it._

_“Mike?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“What was his last name?”_

_I looked at my address book lying on the nighttable, but didn’t pick it up. “I don’t quite remember.”_

_“I was like Kerkorian,” Bill said, sounding distressed, “but that wasn’t quite it. You’ve got everything written down, though. Right?”_

_“Right,” I said._

_“Thank God for that.”_

            It doesn’t make sense. None of it does.

            For starters, Eddie doesn’t have asthma. He’s never even considered the mere thought that he _could_ have asthma. No, Eddie has chronic migraines and has had them for as long as he can remember, so why is it that Bill had said otherwise? And why is this entry dated in the eighties?

            None of it adds up, not in the slightest.

            The car comes to a stop as close to the Quarry as they’re able to park. As Richie is unbuckling, he finally notices that Eddie is still staring down at the paper in shock and frowns. “Are you okay?”

            Eddie can’t even try to lie. “I don’t know.”

            “What is that?”

            “I don’t know,” Eddie says again, because he doesn’t. Taking in a deep breath, he finally folds the paper over and puts it in his back pocket, his eyes catching on the scars on his palms for only a moment before he gets out of the car without another word, fully intending on showing this discovery to everyone as soon as they’re all together.

            Baffled, and still very much worried, Richie quickly follows after him.

 

 

 

 

3

 

            “He’s been having nightmares.”

            The tension in the air is palpable and strong. Beverly is watching everyone cautiously, as if examining their souls and trying to pinpoint their secrets before they can reveal them. Beside her, Ben is glancing between Bill and Georgie in confusion, unsure of what’s going on and how to react to it. Mike is still holding Stan’s hand, the two of them huddled close together and listening intently. Eddie’s hand keeps twitching towards his pocket, wanting to take out that paper and show it but knowing he needs to wait for the right moment. Richie is watching Eddie – still listening, yes, but even as Bill talks, he can’t stop studying Eddie, looking for any sign of his migraine getting worse or any hint of distress. Georgie is staring at the ground, his arms wrapped around his legs and hugging his knees to his chest while Bill places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

            “And I know nightmares,” Bill goes on softly. “Like, insomnia and sleep paralysis and all that shit runs in my mom’s side of the family, so I know how bad they can get, but these… these are a lot worse than anything that I’ve seen or experienced. It’s like he’s completely possessed, and what the nightmares are about is just… completely insane.”

            “What are they about?” Beverly is quick to ask, pushing away any worry or fear for the sake of feeding her curiosity. She hates not knowing what’s happening.

            Bill turns to Georgie, who lets out a little sigh and shrugs his shoulders lightly. “It’s hard to explain,” he murmurs, avoiding everyone’s eyes as he tries to put words to the things in his head. “I don’t… I don’t remember most of them, but there’s some little things that I _can_ remember, you know? Like… I remember that all of you are in them, and that it’s dark, and that I’m not me, I’m something else, and I have no control of what’s happening. It kind of feels like memories, but not _my_ memories.”

            For a moment, Richie sees Eddie’s shoulders tense. He almost asks what’s wrong, but then Eddie speaks up to question, “What does that mean?”

            “Uh…” Georgie falters, looking up at Bill with a frown, who just nods in encouragement. After a short moment, Georgie explains, “I think it has something to do with the thing I saw in the storm drain, the day of Ben’s birthday party. I think… I think that whatever’s down there is what’s causing this.”

            “Why do you think that?”

            “Because that’s when the weird stuff started happening,” Georgie answers simply.

            For a minute, it’s silent. “He’s right,” Eddie says, looking over to Richie. “That’s the day I saw the missing poster of you.”

            Richie physically flinches, for the first time since arriving looking away from Eddie and focusing his gaze on the ground. Eddie doesn’t think he’s going to say anything, but then he mumbles, “That’s not when my parents were acting weird, though.”

            “But that didn’t happen until after the birthday party,” Beverly points out. “The day your parents were acting weird is the day I saw the blood in the Kenduskeag. Whatever this is, it didn’t start until then. Everything else has been happening after that.”

            “Wait, _what’s_ been happening?” Ben asks, lost. For him, nothing has happened other than the cuts on his hand and the brief sighting of a balloon outside his window. He looks around the little circle they’re sitting in and finds that all of them have some sort of strain on their features, except for Bill, who is only looking at Georgie in clear concern. Completely baffled, Ben leans forward and cautiously asks, “What happened to all of you?”

            Again, it goes quiet, none of them wanting to be to the first to speak up. Eventually, Stan sniffles softly and turns his head to look at the water. “I saw myself,” he states calmly, though he tightens his hold on Mike’s hand. “At least, I think it was me. It was, like, a middle school version of me, with blood on the sides my face, but I could only see the reflection in the water. It disappeared after a couple minutes, though. I just… I thought I was still half-asleep and was seeing things or something, so I dropped it.”

            Shakily, Mike picks up the metaphorical torch and says, “I, uh… I was in the bathroom at school, and it filled with smoke out of nowhere. The door was locked, too, so I couldn’t get out, and there was water and blood and…” He pauses, shaking his head. “Jesus, I don’t know. I thought I was gonna die in there, but then the door finally opened and there was a balloon in the hallway just… just floating there. When it turned around, it said, uh… it said Remember me, Mikey? And the it popped.”

            “Fuck,” Richie breathes, brows rising. “Now you playing flag football makes sense.”

            Mike cracks a small smile at that, but doesn’t respond.

            Deciding that this makes it his turn, Richie says, “My folks were, like, completely different people. Mom was MIA, Dad was hammered and mean. Neither of them remembered it in the morning.”

            “I saw blood,” Beverly says, not looking or sounding at all afraid or timid, though there is a glint in her eyes that gives away how she feels under her steeled-over front. “In the pipes by Main Street bridge. It was just… red and shiny and _there_ , but then it was gone.”

            Bill has nothing to say, having not experienced anything other than the cuts on his hands and witnessing Georgie go through whatever this is, so he turns to Eddie, who takes a deep breath before saying, “I saw a missing poster of Richie.” It’s short and simple, and everyone looks ready to move on and attempt to make sense of all of this, but then Eddie adds, “But that’s not it.”

            Immediately, Richie’s head snaps back up and he watches, feeling as though the world is in slow motion, as Eddie pulls the paper he was reading in the car out of his back pocket.

            “This was in the bag I got from the pharmacy,” Eddie explains quietly, avoiding everyone’s gazes as he passes it to Bill. As Bill reads over it, Eddie scrambles to add, “I have no clue what it means or where it came from, but it’s… it’s really weird and confusing.”

            The more that Bill reads, the more furrowed his brows become. All he’s able to get out at first is a whispered, “What the fuck?” before he passes it along, letting everyone else read it as well.

            By the time Richie reads it, he feels sick. Not only because of what it says on the page, but because this was in his car. Eddie was right next to him, reading this, and he didn’t have the slightest clue. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he murmurs, and stupidly enough he can feel tears forming behind his eyes.

            “I didn’t write that,” Mike states as soon as Richie hands the paper back to Eddie, who can see the shimmer in his eyes but opts to not mention it. “I know that’s my handwriting, but I swear to god I didn’t write that.”

            “We know, Mike,” Stan quickly assures, seeing the way that panic is growing on Mike’s features, as if afraid that the others will accuse him of playing some cruel joke on them.

            All of them nod, even Richie, who looks very out of it and not at all focused on the conversation at hand. “No one thinks you did this,” Ben adds, though he’s still frowning, trying to make sense of everything in his mind.

            “The question is,” Beverly murmurs, “who did?”

 

 

 

 

4

 

            It’s later now, and they’re huddled in Richie’s living room instead of the Quarry. He offered his house up when they decided to go somewhere more private, saying that both of his parents are working late shifts and they’ll have all the time they need to discuss what’s going on. There’s a movie on and a large bowl of popcorn sitting on the coffee table, but the TV is muted and no one feels very hungry as Georgie tells them about what happened on Wednesday.

            “I don’t know what it told me,” he says, “but I know it was… a lot. And I know I felt really warm and safe even though I shouldn’t have.” He shrugs, tense and uncertain, before adding, “I can remember remembering, but I can’t remember what it was that I remembered.”

            “Remembering what?” Ben murmurs, confused.

            Georgie shrugs again. “I don’t know. More memories, I think, like in my dreams. Memories that aren’t mine, but as soon as the moment ended, I started to forget what it said.” He sighs, loud and tired, and all of them are hit with the realization that this kid – thirteen-years-old, usually energetic and giddy – looks far older and far more exhausted than he should. That thought sits heavy in their chests, makes their stomachs churn.

            _He doesn’t deserve to go through this,_ Bill thinks. _I wish I could take his place._

            “All I know,” Georgie goes on, crossing his arms over his chest and slouching in his seat, “is that something really weird and really bad is happening here. I don’t know what it is or why, but I know it’s big, and scary, and it has something to do with you guys. And, for some reason, it has something to do with

            (the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the key, the)

             me, too.”

            Those words hang in the air, teasing and taunting and almost too harsh to hear. Mike parts his lips to speak, but after a moment, he seals them shut again. Eddie rubs a finger against his temple, a newer, much more mild headache forming behind his eyes. Silently, Richie hands him the water bottle still in his bag, which he accepts gratefully. No one speaks.

            There’s nothing that they can say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, the italicized parts are directly quoted from the last interlude in the book. it is quite literally a page taken out of mike's journal, which is what the chapter is named after. also, in case anyone was wondering why eddie has headaches in this fic, it's specifically because mike in the book can't remember if eddie had asthma or chronic migraines and i decided to use that to use that.
> 
> also: i lowered the chapter count from 15 to 12, but the fic still isn't 100% plotted out into specific chapters so that number could still change.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think and hmu on tumblr @ sunsetozier !!


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